If You Play With Fire,
by canadianscanget
Summary: How did a stolen Rembrandt find its way onto a wall in the FBI? Now it's missing? How far does Peter have to go for Neal? The painting? Neal's history, family and then some. Bit of real Art theft history. Violence. Language. Enjoy! COMPLETE! beta'd mam711
1. Seen

Short preamble then the story:

Darn! Someone should have warned me about how addictive writing could become. I never expected to be writing multiple chapters or ever contemplated putting this many words down. What a pleasure, and how wonderful to receive the advise and guidance of others.

This story took on a life of its own. Yes, there is violence but I tried not to drag it out, I just needed the_ push_ to be there. You can let your own imagination fill in any blanks or skip without loosing the story. I've hopefully spent more time on the interplay, emotions, responses and history. The details are as factual as I can get and hopefully I haven't tread on anyone's toes (the food, the places, the art is "real", but no characters are intended to represent anyone real, past or present).

I like the banter between Peter and Neal but other characters are important too. There should be something for everyone here. So please enjoy.

Thanks to Jeff Eastin, WhiteCollar cast/crew and UsaNetwork for sharing with us. For allowing us all some diversion. And letting us mess with their characters.

Once upon a time, I had to apologize for multiple errors, but **mam711** kindly, and heroically, offered to Beta for me - Oh, wow thank you so much, but I'm still claiming any errors as solely mine 'cause they are. **Swanpride**, thankfully, provided invaluable nudges along the way to keep the story rolling. Reviews are welcome and appreciated.

Cheers!

O O O

**01 SEEN**

* * *

Neal sat at the far end of a long dark teak bar. The little bistro was tucked along the edge of a tall, relatively mundane building. The owner had spent time adding character to the narrow structure but it was the large sliding doors that opened to the street that set this location apart. It had taken Neal several months to find the location. He sighed and sipped slowly on his favorite coffee, savoring the smooth richness, with a slight kiss of Glenora malt whiskey to finish the aromatic delight.

Neal breathed in the faint scent of the perfume worn by the woman three stools down from him. Her occasional soft laugh tickled at his right ear, as she chatted to a friend. Neal tipped his fedora lower over his eyes. It was nearly time, the reason this little spot was perfect to him.

The streets outside buzzed with the last remnants of the workday. The tall buildings encompassed the cars and the people, dwarfing their very existence. Neal peered down the corridor created by the buildings, a dark gray concrete building to the immediate left and a glass-shrouded building on the right, followed by numerous creations past his vantage point.

Neal could see the first soft rays falling across the glass building. Then the setting sun slowly slipped into view, making the gray corridor turn to a blaze of orange, red and a softening pink. The rays stroked down the sides of the buildings and lit the entire street up. The rays continued to spill down the corridor of buildings until they slid into the bistro and fell at Neal's feet. Now the bistro had the perfect ambiance. Neal beamed.

Neal picked up his coffee, just touching it to his lips when he became aware of a new aroma. Coarse, musky and nowhere near to his liking. He put the coffee down.

A hulk of a man hawked over him. He pressed close into Neal. His husky voice rasped into Neal's ear.

"Mr. Caffrey, I have someone waiting to see you."

The man latched onto Neal's arm before Neal could turn to face the voice.

Neal grimaced as the grip tightened.

"Now."

Not that Neal planned on protesting the mass of a creature that stood next to him. The man was not only massive in stature but the girth of his neck, cut of his shoulders and arms in the black suit jacket he wore spoke volumes, literally volumes, of the muscles that powered the hand tightly gripping Neal's right arm.

Neal caught the man's stern, emotionless face but he stopped short when he met the soft brown eyes that were in stark contrast to everything else.

Before Neal could offer up one of his typical sideways comments, the man had pulled him from his stool at the bar and was ushering him out into the last rays of the setting sun.

The man moved him down the street at a steady pace. To anyone passing it was obvious that Neal was not exactly a walking companion, nor a willing companion of any sort to the man. Being New York, however, to the others passing the two were no more than another obstacle impeding their own progression down the street.

Neal had expected his chaperone to shove him into a nearby vehicle, not to take him on an evening stroll. Neal kept watching the man, still dumbstruck by the sheer audacity of anyone "kidnapping" someone by taking them for a walk along busy New York streets.

They rounded a corner, the skyscrapers casting them into shadow. Neal felt the coolness of the evening. He felt the warmth of the sun dulling into dusk, the impending darkness soon to follow.

Neal shuddered.

The man stopped and turned Neal to him. He narrowed his eyes and glowered at Neal.

"What?" Neal quirked.

The Man's eyes were now slits, the soft brown replaced by a darkness that sent another shudder through Neal.

"We're here," the man stated bluntly.

He spun Neal around and into a side door of a nondescript building. Neal hadn't realized they had moved into an alleyway. He'd been distracted by the man's unrelenting march down the cavernous streets.

They entered into a tight back corridor.

The thump of cabaret music filtered through the walls, while the smell of stale beer permeated the air.

Liquor cases were stacked along one wall, making the corridor narrow even further. The man shoved Neal in front of him. He easily held him up as the action caused Neal to stumble down the corridor.

They took a left, right, then two flights of stairs.

When they reached a landing at the top of the stairs the man tapped on a large steel door. The door unlocked with the metallic click of an electronic mechanism. They passed through a control room of sorts. Two men looked up from several monitors, glancing at the large man, then very quickly dropping their eyes and returning to their tasks. Neal may as well have been invisible to them. Things were happening way too fast.

Neal suddenly felt his gut wrench. He should have been looking for outs sooner than this. He wasn't even sure what last street they had come down, nor what building they had entered. He chided himself for being lulled into a greater sense of security working with the FBI and Peter. He'd come to rely on Peter being there for backup during cases.

_Hello, this wasn't a case. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not. Of course, the location couldn't be outside his radius. No, conveniently he was likely well within his radius. Peter's "verifying" wasn't likely to occur until the a.m., and shit, it was a Friday so that was out the window. Great, just great, Caffrey, you screwed this up royally, again._

Neal's self-chiding thoughts were stopped as the man brought him up in front of a carved oak door.

The man opened the door slowly, almost cautiously. Only when the man's entry had been acknowledged by some unseen figure was Neal yanked behind him and through the doorway.

Neal stood in an office overlooking a nightclub - a bar, seating areas, a dance floor and twirling lights could easily be seen through heavy one-way glass at the far end of the office. Opposite the glass sat an ornate oak desk; behind it a man, close to Neal's own age, rocked comfortably in a leather and oak chair. His feet were propped up casually on the desk. His hands were folded in front of him except for his index fingers and thumbs, which were pressed together tightly. His eyes rested calmly on Neal.

Neal had the eerie feeling that he should know the man but couldn't place him.

It wasn't like him to have remained so quiet but then he wasn't used to being _kidnapped_, at least not like this.

The obvious boss, and the man waiting to see him, abruptly stood up.


	2. Men

**02 FIRE**

(If you're not a Ruiz fan no fear he only makes a brief appearance)

* * *

Agent Joseph Ruiz was nearly home when he got the call for an alert on one of their targets. His Organized Crime team had been working a local crime syndicate with affiliates throughout New York State and down the Eastern Seaboard for nearly two years. They were finally starting to pull their case together, so anything new could impact their case in either direction.

Ruiz swung his sedan around and headed back into the city.

Twenty minutes later he stood behind the young agent monitoring the live video stream for the back door of the "Zazze Club". The young agent played the images back. One of their targets, Maury Trenton, second only to their main target Emile Zantele, entered the far right of the image with a younger, well-attired man in tow.

"Caffrey!" Ruiz spat out. "Miserable little shit."

The young agent startled. He stared up at his boss in surprise.

"Neal Caffrey from the White Collar Unit? I hear he's some hot sh... ." He trailed off, his boss's dirty look stifling any further comment.

He went back to his monitors, leaving his boss glaring at a vacant alleyway and dark brick wall. The _NO ENTRY_ on the bright red door set into the brick wall was a constant reminder of how difficult their case had been to date.

Agent Ruiz had endured Caffrey's presence on two other cases. Confidential Informants (C.I.s) were one thing, but having a felon - no less a notorious con-artist/forger/thief as a consultant - was another. Worse still, having him involved with FBI cases left Ruiz feeling tainted. _He didn't need a felon to do his job._ He'd always clashed with Peter Burke about how they got the job done, but this was entirely different. He had little respect left for Burke, and generally avoided him and his team. He certainly wasn't about to let Caffrey, and whatever he was doing with Zantele and Trenton, screw his case up.

Ruiz snatched up his keys and stomped out of the monitoring room. The room shook as the door slammed closed. So too did the young agent, with a cold shiver running down his spine.


	3. Horses

There is violence but a means to an ends, the result being one more thing hidden from Peter.

**03 HORSES**

* * *

Neal had found his favorite place again. The Pacific Northwest. Oregon.

_The tall cedars swept over the line of driftwood stacked along the beach. At the far end of the cove the trees become gnarled and windswept but here they made the beach seem like some secret hiding place, safe from the rest of the world. He could see his mother tucked into the sun-bleached roots of a large chunk of driftwood, her easel propped on her knees and her paintbrush sweeping across the canvas. He looked around to find his father further up the beach. Neal nimbly lept from one massive chunk of driftwood to another, then down onto the soft sand. He could hear the surf running up the beach, "sizzling" as it turned each piece of sand against the next, until it lapped at his bare feet. He caught up to his father. His father had a flat piece of wood and was deftly picking up a gelatinous mess of purple and red jellyfish that had been washed ashore from last night's storm. His father waded into the surf and threw the jellyfish as far as he could into the ocean._

_Neal looked up the_ _beach at the long line of jellyfish. "Why?"_

_"Why what?" his father asked._

_"Why bother putting the jellies back in the water?"_

_"Why wouldn't I?" his father asked patiently._

_"Well, there's so many, what difference will one make?"_

_His father looked appreciatively at him. "It will make a difference to that one."_

_Neal suddenly thought about Peter._

_Was he like a jellyfish to Peter?_

_Did Peter keep scooping him up, trying to save him?_

_To make a difference?_

_To make a difference for Neal?_

The thought pulled Neal away from the memories of his favorite place.

He could hear a voice in the distance.

Rasping to find breath

Then the darkness.

Then fire and pain.

Neal clung to the the arms of Maury, the hulk of a man who had _escorted_ him to Zantele's office. Maury held him uncomfortably off balance. Neal's face and shoulder pressed into his right side, Neal's arms clenched tightly by his vise-like hands. Neal's legs ached, his body shook, his breaths came in short gasps. His appeals, held until his back had started to burn, went unanswered; now he could no longer find the breath.

The man, the boss he now knew as one Emile Zantele, had been cordial enough at the start and Neal had hoped things might be better than he imagined.

* * *

As Zantele abruptly stood, Neal stepped back. In doing so he backed directly into the mass of a man who had brought him there. It was like backing into a brick wall. A wall with hands that were quick to tighten around his biceps.

Zantele walked around to the front of the desk.

"Maury," he'd chided softly, nodding his head at the man.

Maury loosened his grip but still held Neal firmly.

"I've waited six years to meet you, Mr. Caffrey."

"You should've had your secretary call my secretary." He tipped his head slightly towards Maury.

Maury drove his fingers sharply into Neal's biceps.

Neal grimaced.

"Maury." Zantele's tone was a little sharper.

Maury again loosened his grip but his breath fell heavy onto Neal's neck.

"Well, I'm not sure that Agent Burke would have arranged a meeting for us."

Zantele noted the look of curiosity that ran across Neal's face. Zantele smirked. He pressed in closer to Neal.

"Yes, Mr. Caffrey, I know far more than you'd like." He paused. "Your time in jail, your escape, your deal with the FBI, with Peter Burke ..." Zantele stepped closer to Neal. "... and several art thefts, forgeries and cons certain people would be pleased to know about."

Neal blinked but kept his mouth shut.

"Oh, yes, I know all about you."

Neal felt a coldness creep through him.

Zantele now stood a heartbeat from him. His face pressed in close.

Neal pulled back.

Zantele ran the back of two fingers down Neal's face.

"What a shame it would be to have that pretty face messed up."

Neal turned his face away, only to have Zantele grab his jaw in his hand and yank his face forward.

"Don't you turn away from me," Zantele spat at Neal, his hand pulling back to slap him squarely across the face.

"What do you want?" Neal kept his voice in check, matter-of-fact.

Zantele stepped back. He turned, laughing, then spun back to face Neal.

The coldness in his eyes caused Neal's heart to skip.

"I want my painting." Zantele's voice was so calm, so eerily quiet, that Neal was sure his heart had stopped.

Neal took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly to steady himself.

Neal shook his head softly, "I'm sorry, I don't know you. I don't know your painting. I don't—"

Zantele back-handed Neal. He would have fallen had it not been for the steel grip of Maury.

"Normally," Zantele looked down at his manicured hand, flexing it, adjusting the solid gold rings, "I let Maury look after my dirty work."

Zantele brought his gaze up to meet Neal's blue eyes.

He reached forward.

Neal flinched.

Zantele smirked.

Zantele pulled the kerchief from Neal's breast pocket and wiped the blood from Neal's cheek.

"Do you really want that face of yours messed up?" Zantele queried politely.

Neal felt the slight trembling of his body, his breath coming short and quick. He shook his head softly.

"My father," Zantele started, "and you do know my father, liked horses, race horses to be more precise. He had several thoroughbreds. Problem is he'd spend a whole lot of money on a horse only to find out it wouldn't run the way he wanted."

Zantele moved back around the desk and continued, "Some like to take the long approach, slow and steady. Works. But when you get a horse that persists in kicking you. Sometimes a more direct method is necessary." Zantele shrugged, nonchalant, and pulled a riding crop from beside the desk.

Neal checked his desire to swallow hard unfortunately the flight response was still kicking in and he pressed back against Maury.

Maury snorted and held him tighter.

"I don't have your painting," Neal proclaimed bluntly.

"You insult me! MY FATHER! My father died wanting nothing more than to have his precious painting." Zantele was now standing menacingly in front of Neal. "He paid you well for the painting. You were supposed to be the best, a _thoroughbred_ when it came to stealing fine art."

The reference was all too obvious for Neal. He felt queasy. He also now found himself looking deeper into the eyes of the man in front of him, recognition slowly rising. The cut of the jaw. The slight turn-up of his mouth. The eyes, calm and menacing in the same breath.

"John Adam Ames."

Unfortunately, Neal made it sound like he'd just found some lost treasure.

"Wow!" Zantele almost laughed, "Do you want me to applaud."

Neal froze. _'Stupid, stupid. Neal, you trying to get yourself killed?'_ a voice whispered to him. He suddenly looked around, expecting Peter to be there. _'Where's a cop when you need one, right?'_

Zantele looked at Neal, puzzled as the man seemed to be searching for someone else in the room. Zantele looked at Maury, who shrugged.

"What?" Zantele prompted.

Neal brought his confused gaze back to meet Zantele's equally-quizzical gaze.

"It's an old building, Maury, maybe Mr. Caffrey saw a ghost."

Zantele spoke so casually Neal almost forgot about the riding crop folded into the man's crossed arms. He was now half sitting on the desk. Neal almost let himself relax.

_'Oh, buddy, this is no time to relax.' _The Peter voice was back,_ 'Don't you have some witty comment to make? Some sleight of hand to get yourself out of this?_'

"I'm out of witty comments," Neal answered the voice.

_'Buddy boy, I think you might have made things worse with that one.'_

"What? Hey?" Neal continued to look around.

_'I don't think your friend is going to go for the I've-just-lost-my-mind ploy.'_

"He's not my... ." Neal trailed off when he realized that Zantele had stood and was glaring at him.

"Enough!" Zantele barked. "Put your hands out."

Neal looked complete dumbfounded by Zantele's order.

"Would you sooner have them broken?" Zantele's voice was deadly. "Maury."

Neal brought his hands up faster than Maury could move.

"Wise choice." Zantele brought the riding crop across the palms of Neal's hands.

Neal bit the inside of his lower lip, closing his hands tightly.  
Maury grabbed Neal's wrists, his grip tightening until Neal reopened his hands.  
Zantele brought the crop down across his palms twice more.  
Neal stared down at his hands, the red welts burning into his flesh.  
He curled his hands up and pulled them into his body.

"I'm not planning on killing you, Mr. Caffrey," Zantele assured him. "But I do want my father's painting back, and, I do want you to appreciate how hard you kicked my father."

Neal brought his glazed blue eyes up to meet Zantele's . He rocked his head from side-to-side. Suddenly, Maury spun him around and awkwardly off balance. He grabbed at Maury's arms in an effort to balance himself. Maury pulled him in and yanked his arms tight.

Zantele started at Neal's lower back and moved agonizingly down.

It was _painfully_ apparent to Neal how cruel and manipulative Zantele was, inflicting pain without debilitating injury, pain that was both immediate and lingering, that left the body racked and exhausted. Beyond the pain, it was an indignation that made it unthinkable to ask for help or explain to anyone (no cops, no hospitals, ... no handlers).

* * *

Maury swung Neal back around, holding his wrists and folding his arms over Neal's. His legs buckled and Maury yanked him up. Neal would have collapsed except for Maury supporting most of his weight.

Zantele was now staring through Neal. Neal shivered, his body sweaty and aching from the beating. He forced himself to stay in the present. No safe hiding places. He needed to know what Zantele's plans were for him. He felt like the man would rip his heart out if he failed to get the painting he demanded. Neal knew the painting. He knew where it was too. Getting it would be another matter.

"Two weeks, Mr. Caffrey." Zantele finally spoke, as if they'd reached a business deal, and this was merely a delivery date.

"Two weeks," he repeated, holding up two fingers for emphasis. "Or ... you are dead!"

He spoke to Maury. Directing him to take Neal to the docks. To cut his tracker but leave it with him. Maury nodded and deftly steered Neal towards the door. Zantele stopped him and picked Neal's fedora up and passed it to Maury. "We don't want Mr. Caffrey to leave here looking out-of-sorts, now do we, Maury?"

Maury replied with a half grunt, half snicker.


	4. Fire

**04 FIRE**

* * *

Agent Joseph Ruiz impatiently drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. An hour plus watching the front and rear entrances of the Zazze Club was trying his patience. His patience was already frazzled by a long week, and now Mr. *&^%! Con-artist Caffrey messing with one of his major cases only served to worsen the pounding in his head.

Finally, the rear entrance door opened and Caffrey stumbled out with Maury Trenton. Trenton grabbed Caffrey's arm and threw it over his shoulders and headed to an SUV parked in the alleyway. Ruiz started his vehicle and pulled out behind the SUV. He hoped there was enough traffic that his presence would go undetected. The SUV headed to the docks. Ruiz hung back to avoid Trenton making him.

Trenton stopped along a side street and hauled Caffrey from the SUV. Caffrey slumped to the ground, his back against an old concrete building. Trenton flipped a knife open.

"Great. Just great," Ruiz muttered as he drew his firearm. "Now I have to save the miserable shit too."

Ruiz caught himself as he realized Trenton was at Caffrey's feet cutting the tracker; he re-holstered and tucked back into his vehicle.

* * *

"What? ... What? ... When? ... Where? ... Why'd they BOLO already? ... Yeah, well, I dropped the damn thing. No, don't ask where. Just... Okay, then, call the Marshals off. ... Yeah, we'll take the heat."

Jones had answered half of Peter's questions before he could complete them. Peter smiled briefly, then sighed, a deep, tired sigh. Neal was outside his radius and had now cut his tracker. The combination had caused the Marshals to put out a BOLO for Caffrey. Peter hadn't received the initial call; El had been chatting on their main line and he'd turned his cell off while he attempted to dry it out. To say the least it had been a tiresome week. Peter's weekend looked like it was going to be just as tiring.

_'No rest for the wicked ... or me.' _Peter thought as he strapped his shoulder holster tight, shrugged his jacket on, and headed to the kitchen.

El looked up as he entered.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "Dessert's off?"

Peter nodded shyly.

El knew Peter wanted nothing more than to put his feet up and spend a quiet weekend together.

"Dessert will keep, hun," she soothed. "Do you have to pick up Neal?"

Her face dropped as Peter's expression soured.

"Oh, he didn't?"

"Ohhh, he did." Peter sighed again.

Peter leaned down and kissed El on the cheek and headed out into the chill of the night.

* * *

A cool wind blew off the harbor. It wrapped around Neal, playing with the dark wisps of hair that fell across his face. The wind taunted him, mocking, then danced off with the last remnants of warmth. Neal clutched the tracker in his hands, shivering, aching, tired ... and laughter ringing in his ears?

It was back, the wind, only this time it brought the Peter voice with it. Neal shuddered.

"Peter ... I hurt... Stop."

_"You know I can't do that."_

"You ... can."

_"Neal. Neal!"_

Neal was drifting off.

_"No time to sleep, buddy. Besides, it's rude when someone's talking"._

Neal looked up, startled; he was sure someone had just kicked him.

_"I didn't kick you. I tapped you with my foot."_

"Kicked."

_"Tapped."_

"Just ... just ... come get..." Neal's teeth chattered.

_"I'm coming."_

* * *

Neal heard, then saw the sedan slide up to the curb. Neal felt relief wash over him. Then surprise, then concern, as he watched Agent Joseph Ruiz come around the front of the vehicle. He knew Ruiz didn't like him. Fair enough. Ruiz caught criminals. Neal was a criminal. Ruiz couldn't catch Neal. Peter caught Neal. Ruiz wasn't happy. Neal muffled a laugh. He should write a children's book. Ruiz really wasn't happy.

Ruiz squatted beside Neal. Dark eyes scowled at him.

"What's so funny, Caffrey?"

"The book."

Ruiz tilted his head. _He couldn't smell liquor. Drugs? Caffrey didn't seem the type. Mind you, Caffrey never made much sense to him anyway. The first case..._

"The bible?" Ruiz shot out.

Neal shook his head.

Ruiz shook his head too. _Why was he having an inane conversation with this, this criminal._

"Enough!" Ruiz's anger cut through Neal's false calm. "I don't know what you're f..ing around at, Caffrey, but I do know you're under arrest."

Ruiz dragged Neal to his feet before the words sunk in.

"What? No. Peter is..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what Peter is, what you are ..." Ruiz slammed him across the hood of the car. "... is under arrest." He finished his words as he forced Neal's hands behind him, clicking the cuffs shut and yanking him up and to the back of the sedan.

* * *

O O O


	5. Rhino

**05 RHINO**

If you reference the CH title, the myth goes that rhinos stomp out fires.

Can't you just see Peter stomping? It's always the nice guys you really don't want to p... off.

O O O

* * *

Peter rolled the tracker through his fingers again.

Incessantly for the last ten hours he'd picked the tracker up - examining it, twisting it, tapping it - as if the action would miraculously make the former wearer appear. Jones and Diana had watched patiently; they each realized the increasing frustration that Peter was experiencing.

They had found the tracker near the docks. No Neal.

They had watched Peter pluck the tracker from the gutter. He had run his fingers over the smooth cut in the band. Then he'd looked around, listening, waiting, seemingly expecting Neal to casually appear around a corner and apologize for some stupid endeavor. Finally, Peter had stood staring at the ground until Diana gently touched his arm. She had called his name twice without response. The touch brought his head up slowly to reveal two sad, tired brown eyes. He blinked at her._ "He's not here." _She shook her head at him, his statement obvious.

They had searched the docks, checked with June, checked with Mozzie, and checked any, and all of, Neal's favorite haunts. No Neal.

The tracking data had shown Neal at his newest favorite bistro and then at the Zazze Club. They got a few minor search hits on the Zazze Club but nothing to help in locating Neal. The bouncers and bartenders didn't remember Neal. Peter couldn't believe that anyone wouldn't remember Neal. Jones had pointed out the young women around them. Peter glared at him, apologized, and suggested that might be true for this hour but not at 7pm. The manager couldn't provide any better help. He ran no cameras, claiming the privacy of their clients. He suggested that Neal had maybe waited outside for someone. They couldn't prove otherwise. Still no Neal.

With nothing else, Peter had finally relented and let a second BOLO go out for Neal.

It was light out now. Saturday morning, sunny, warm, the perfect start to the weekend, unless you were one of the three people still in Peter Burke's office.

Peter, Jones and Diana were again looking at the tracking data. Unfortunately, it didn't look any different from the first, second, ... or sixth time. As weary eyes stared blankly at the screen, they became aware of another set of tired eyes watching them. Peter met the eyes of a young agent nervously watching him from the bullpen. Peter recognized him from Organized Crime and waved him up.

The young agent wrung his hands, looking at his feet, the three agents, his feet, the agents, his feet... Peter sighed.

"You look tired, son, I'm sure you have something better to do than watch your feet in my office."

He immediately held up a flash drive. "I ... I'm ... I'm monitoring for Agent Ruiz. I only just heard. I, I saw him ... Agent ... uh, Mr. Caffrey last night."

Undivided attention would be an understatement.

Jones had the flash drive in the USB port before Peter could close his mouth.

A vacant alleyway.

A vacant alleyway.

A vacant alleyway.

It was only seconds but time is _always_ relative, especially to an FBI agent looking for a missing colleague, _partner_. Seconds are minutes, minutes are days, vacant alleyways are... Peter let out the breath he was holding when an image of Neal and a truly sizable man emerged on the screen.

"Maury Trenton," the young agent quickly pointed out.

They entered a red door in the alleyway.

"The Zazze Club." Surprised glances met the young agent. "You know it?"

The eyes went back to the screen without answering.

There was a blip; the monitor time bumped ahead by more than an hour. Neal and Trenton came back through the red door. Neal stumbled. Trenton grabbed him up and shoved him into an SUV.

"Damn," Peter snorted. Then he gaped as he watched a dark sedan pull out behind the SUV.

Peter glared up at the young agent, whose face drained of all color. "Who?"

"I..." His eyes darted between the agents. " I ... I think ... Agent Ruiz."

Peter backed the young agent against the glass of his office. "Where?"

"Caffrey?"

"No, Agent...?"

"Michaels."

"No, Agent Michaels, you wouldn't have brought the drive if you knew where Neal Caffrey was, would you?"

Michaels shook his head. "You meant Agent Ruiz."

Peter tried to maintain the small scrap of patience he had left. He shook his head yes, and sighed.

"Yes, Agent Michaels, Ruiz."

"I don't know. I..."

Peter slammed his fist against the open door.

Michaels jumped, his face now completely ashen.

Peter steadied himself. Michaels wasn't at fault. He tipped his head to the side, the muscles in his neck giving an audible _snap_. Peter rubbed his hands across his eyes and held the bridge of his nose.

"My apologies, Agent Michaels, we're all a little on edge - too many hours, too much coffee, and too few answers."

Michaels relaxed his shoulders, nodding his head in understanding. He apologized. Peter wasn't sure for what, but patted him on the shoulder as he exited the office and told him he had done good. Peter spun on his heels, his anger evident and completely expected by Diana and Jones. Both knew there was no love lost between Ruiz and Peter. Both knew Ruiz stood no chance if Peter lost the last speck of respect he held for the other agent.

"He's here," Diana announced.

"What?"

Peter stopped. He was set to locate Ruiz but Diana had started looking the moment she realized Agent Michaels was clueless as to Ruiz's whereabouts.

Diana cradled the phone without taking her eyes from Peter.

"Agent Ruiz. He's here in the building. The 14th floor."


	6. Found

**06 FOUND**

* * *

Jones and Diana looked at each other.

Peter sprinted across the bullpen and through the glass doors to the elevator. When the elevator doors didn't slide open on command, he started bounding down the stairs two steps at a time.

Jones and Diana looked at each other.  
"Elevator," Jones called.  
"Stairs," Diana called.  
They were a breath behind Peter but nonetheless behind.

Peter slammed the glass doors open on the 14th floor. He put his hands on his knees, then stood to catch his breath while he scanned for Ruiz. Two agents stared up, surprised by the sudden entry of Agent Burke.

"Ruiz," he demanded.

They shrugged a _no idea_.

Peter stomped through the bullpen and started checking offices. All empty on this Saturday morning.

"Ruiz!" he called out.

He yelled it again, until he almost yelled it into the face of a young agent who had come around a corner to him. The young man took a step back, not sure of the intentions of the senior agent towering over him.

"Where?" Burke ordered.

"Interview Four," the young agent blurted out, while taking another step back.

Peter spun around before the young agent could even grasp what was happening, not that he wanted to know.

Jones and Diana caught Peter at the glass doors and followed without question as he strode down the corridor.

Protocol stands that a closed interview door is one you don't enter, unless you're prepared for the consequences - court, a botched interview, and always the wrath of the interviewer. Peter didn't care: he wanted Ruiz, screw his interview.

Peter stormed into the small room. "What the hell -" he started in at Ruiz until he caught sight of the figure half hidden behind the agent.

Peter shoved Ruiz aside.

Ruiz grabbed his arm. "Burke, What do -"

Peter swirled around, his fist up. Both men locked stares. Peter would so like to have let his fist connect with Ruiz. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Ruiz released his grip and Peter lowered his fist. Ruiz opened his mouth but Peter had grabbed his shoulder and shoved him towards Diana.

"Deal with him."

Ruiz wasn't about to go anywhere. "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, Burke?"

Peter came face to face with Ruiz. Both Diana and Jones tensed.

Peter shook with an anger he was only just managing to keep in check.

"Me?" He wanted to rip into Ruiz. He wanted to check Neal. Neal, who now stood feet from him, cuffed and with a notable bruise and cut on his right cheek. He caught Jones out of the corner of his eye moving towards Neal, then back towards him, Jones knowing that interceding on his boss's behalf might be all too necessary.

Peter snorted into Ruiz's face. He shook his head. "You're not worth it."

"Not worth it? That's not worth it!" He gestured towards Neal.

Ruiz stumbled back. Peter's fist had landed squarely with Ruiz's jaw.

Diana grappled Ruiz. Slight compared to Ruiz, she forced him against the wall, despite a couple of attempts to get at Peter.

Jones braced an arm across Peter. He spoke quietly to Peter, calming, convincing him to look after Neal, while they dealt with Ruiz. Peter glowered at Ruiz. Finally capitulating, he turned his attention to Neal.

Neal stood, disheveled, his face pressed into the wall, dark hair falling across his eyes, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

A forlorn groan softly passed Neal's lips. "Finally," he sighed.

* * *

The Peter voice had returned.

Neal didn't understand why it was yelling at him.

_"__What the hell?__"_

Neal's voice was low. He was exhausted. Thirsty. Lightheaded. Why was the Peter voice yelling at him now?

_"__Deal with him.__"_

"Arrested." Neal caught his breath. "Cuffed." He sighed. "What more?"

_"__You're not worth it__."_

Neal's heart sank.

Neal felt adrift. His anchor had pulled away.

Why did he keep bothering to try with Peter?  
Peter would never understand him.  
Never really trust him.  
Never really be partners, _friends_.

Never...

Never shut up.

_"__Neal. Neal!__"_

"Leave me alone!" Neal tried screaming at the Peter voice: he wanted it to stop yelling at him.

* * *

Peter stopped.

Neal seemed disoriented, his eyes tightly shut, his head shaking, lips moving, as though he was conversing with someone.

Neal groaned softly, "Finally." _The voice had finally stopped yelling._

Neal startled as a hand touched his shoulder.

Neal rolled his forehead on the wall. He moved so his left cheek pressed into the wall. He was willing the wall to stay up. He was sure if he moved away from it, the wall would coming crumbling down. Neal forced his eyes open. The fluorescent light flooded in. He squinted until his eyes focused on the two soft brown eyes intently watching him.

A soft, quiet, "hey," was all that left his lips.

Neal closed his eyes again. The wall rolled, bucked and swayed. _The wall had no right to be moving; he'd held it up, now it was making him feel sick._

Neal suddenly pushed away from the undulating wall.

Peter grabbed him, steadied him, holding both his shoulders.

"Where you going?"

Peter's voice was soft, close to Neal.  
No longer a disembodied voice.  
It was firm hands holding him up.  
Warm eyes, warm - tire - worried.  
_Worried_ eyes watching him.  
It was Peter.

Neal's mouth was dry, lips parched, aching. He tried to tell Peter he was fine but his legs wobbled and Peter tried to sit him in the interview chair. Neal balked: he'd badgered Ruiz into letting him stand; Peter wasn't going to undo his efforts. He pushed away from Peter and leaned back against the stupid moving wall.

Peter didn't understand, but for whatever reason, if that was where Neal found comfort, Peter would let him stand where he wanted for now.

What Peter wanted for now was to know how Ruiz had come to have Neal cuffed and obviously hurting in the FBI building.

He wanted to get the cuffs off Neal.  
He wanted to talk with Neal.  
He wanted Ruiz to shut up.

Peter held Neal up by the shoulders. He turned his attention and anger back at Ruiz. Ruiz had been ranting on about an Organized Crime case - Caffrey was interfering - arrested for Obstructing - not answering questions - Peter's con was trouble - unbelievably annoying.

"Shut up," he barked at Ruiz.

Neal thumped his head into the wall.  
The Peter voice was yelling at him again.  
He thumped his head.  
The wall bucked.  
Neal decided he didn't like the wall any more. If the wall didn't appreciate his efforts to hold it up, well, he'd hold Peter up instead.

Neal lurched forward.

Peter just caught the movement in his peripheral, as Neal's head collided with his shoulder.

Peter managed to keep himself and Neal standing, as he grunted under the sudden weight.

Neal wasn't any better at holding up Peter than he was at walls.

"Clinton." Jones was immediately beside Peter with the use of his first name.

Peter gestured with his head, "Cuffs."

Jones easily slipped the cuff from Neal's right hand but had to twist his left hand around to get at the key-way. Jones stopped as he noted the welts across Neal's hand. He looked up at Peter. Peter, however, was still glowering at Ruiz. Jones slipped the left cuff off and clicked the ratchets closed. He was surprised when Peter half threw Neal into him.

"Got him?"

"Yeah," Jones breathed, a little vexed at having Neal so suddenly foisted onto him.

Peter turned to look at Jones, Neal's left arm slung over his shoulders, held there by a firm grip on Neal's wrist, while Jones held his right arm around Neal's waist. Peter realized Jones was taking most of Neal's weight, made all the more difficult by Neal's unsteady sway.

"Sorry," Peter offered.

Jones nodded.

"Can you get him to the conference room?"

"One way or another," Jones half smirked

Ruiz immediately started to protest. The look Peter shot him clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh, you're coming too," Peter coldly informed Ruiz. "Agent Berrigan."

A derisive smile flashed on Diana's face, as she gestured for Ruiz to proceed in front of her. She disliked Ruiz. Arrogant, critical and bigoted, everything Diana disliked most. Ruiz, several years ago very clearly informed her of what he thought about women in policing and his views on relationships. If Peter hadn't hit Ruiz she'd have readily stepped in.


	7. Sleeping

**07 SLEEPING**

* * *

Peter stepped behind Ruiz and Diana.

As they turned up the main corridor Peter grabbed Ruiz, swinging him around and slamming him into the nearest wall.

Ruiz let out a huff of air. "What the... "

Peter held him firmly against the wall. He pointed up, spinning his finger around.

"No cameras. No witnesses."

Ruiz looked up, then at Diana. She shrugged, tilting her head. "No witnesses."

Ruiz met Peter's angry gaze. "I had..."

"You had? You had no right to touch anyone on my team."

"Team!" Ruiz scoffed.

Peter lost the last speck of respect he held for the other agent. He thumped Ruiz's shoulders, pushing him hard into the wall.

"You ever touch anyone on my team again! ..." Peter was in Ruiz's face, his voice cold, low and even. "... I won't care about witnesses!"

Ruiz let out the breath he was holding and met Peter's cold stare, a stare that dared him to say something, anything. Ruiz took another deep breath and dropped his eyes.

"What do you want, Burke?"

"Answers. Lots of answers."

Ruiz couldn't stop himself. "When I get answers from your consultant." Ruiz made the word sound dirty, like something you could catch.

Peter now held Ruiz's neck firmly in his left hand. He pushed his thumb up and into his jaw, like a tiger gripping its prey, eyes intent, waiting for the slightest movement. Peter breathed heavily, frustrated; he had a lot of choice words for Ruiz but knew he would only be wasting his breath. The air hung heavy with silence. When Peter finally spoke, his voice was flat, reserved, formal.

"Agent Berrigan, please escort Agent Ruiz upstairs. He can explain to the Marshals why he held Mr. Caffrey captive."

Ruiz shot him a disdainful look.

Peter continued. "Captive, while they wasted resources searching for Mr. Caffrey. He can explain his actions to his supervisor and Hughes. We can determine later if there will be any charges."

Ruiz looked smug, until Peter informed him, "Against you!"

Checkmate! Diana smiled to herself, as she watched the smug look drain from Ruiz's face. Dumbfounded suited him much better. Arrogant SOB!

"My pleasure, Boss," Diana announced, taking hold of Ruiz's arm.

Peter strode up the corridor, a little slower this time. No one screwed with his team. No one!

* * *

Neal seemed to perk up the moment he and Jones exited the interview room.

"You good?" Jones questioned, as Neal pulled his left hand free from Jones' grip. He steadied himself against the wall, his arm outstretched. Neal took a deep breath.

"Better. Quieter."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Thanks."

"For what?" Jones narrowed his eyes; he was never sure where Neal was going, or coming from.

"Yelling."

"Yelling? I'm yelling?

"No. Not yelling. Peter."

Jones shook his head, confused. He wondered if he should be checking Neal for a head injury.

They'd reached the elevator with Jones only having to hold Neal's elbow to keep him from swaying.

Neal pressed the elevator button; the doors opened and they were just as quickly inside.

Neal was exhausted; he leaned his head against the side of the elevator, looking up at the false ceiling. He wondered if the jumping thing would really work if the cables snapped. Of course the braking system would take all the fun out of it. He grinned slightly at the thought. Then caught the dirty look Jones was giving him.

Neal studied Jones. He hadn't really given Jones a lot of thought. He'd been preoccupied, first with finding Kate, and Peter, then finding her killer, and Peter, then ..., and Peter. He'd spent a lot of time trying to keep the trust he'd slowly been gaining with Peter. Only he'd managed to twist that trust every way possible until it snapped back at him. Peter snapped at him. Jones. Jones never seemed to snap at anything.

Jones ran on a steady, even keel. He smiled, he joked, he got mad, he got even (well, at least he tried to!), all done calmly, without going overboard. Moreso, he was never judgmental; he'd accepted Neal's presence from the start. If Peter could find something redeeming in Neal, Jones could too. He listened as intently to Neal's analysis of a case as he did to Peter's. Jones backed him up without hesitation, like he would any other member of the team. Jones had grunted and complained, as did Peter, about carrying Neal's weight but never let him drop, never let him down. Neal liked Jones. With the dirty looks Jones continued to give him, he wasn't so sure if the feeling was mutual.

The elevator doors slid open.

For the 13th time, the elevator doors slid open.

Jones caught the direction of Neal's gaze. "Don't you dare!"

Neal looked up, a little taken aback by Jones' rebuke.

Jones still held Neal by his right shoulder, any easing up and Neal leaned precariously sideways.

Jones never took his eyes from Neal, except to glance quickly at the button for the 21st floor. He pressed it, scowling at Neal.

"Sorry," Neal proffered. "I'm..."

Jones continued to scowl. Neal sunk his head into the elevator side panel.

* * *

The elevator doors finally slid open. Peter's impatient glare turned to puzzlement as Jones held up a hand in warning.

"Don't ask."

Peter tilted his head as Jones brushed by him.

"He's all yours!" Jones offered as he walked away, his back to Peter.

With anyone else, Peter would have been irate; Jones, however, had made the comment whimsical, as though Peter awaited an unimaginable fate. Peter turned his attention to Neal. Neal twitched a halfhearted 'who me?' smile.

"What'd you do this time?"

Neal shrugged.

Peter shook his head. He stepped forward to support Neal, who continued to sway, both hands locked tightly onto the handrail of the elevator.

* * *

Jones turned and watched Peter retrieving Neal from the elevator. Peter seemed a little more relaxed, Neal a little more alert, if still unsteady. Jones slowed his breathing, in, out, in, out, bringing his thoughts into focus. The ride back up on the elevator had started with an uneasy silence. Then Neal had spoken with a distance, resolute tone.

"He beat me."

"Ruiz?" Jones sounded surprised.

"Zantele."

"The guy Ruiz kept on about?"

Neal nodded.

"You know him?"

"Do now."

"You need to tell Peter." Jones directed quietly.

"No. He's angry."

"At you?"

Neal nodded.

"No, he's mad at Ruiz."

Neal had been absently staring up at the ceiling. Still supporting his head against the elevator side-panel. Still gripping the handrail with white knuckles. He dropped his head and met Jones' eyes, so close to him, such straightforward honest eyes. Neal's eyes were glossy.

"He keeps yelling at me." Neal sighed.

"Peter's not yelling at you," Jones had reassured him.

"He has. All night." Neal was breathing heavy. "Thinks I'm worthless."

"All night? We only found you this morning."

Neal just blinked at Jones, confused.

"Neal, Peter's not mad at you." Jones emphasized the not. "He's been worried, frustrated, exhausted, but not mad at you."

Neal still looked worried.

Jones smiled softly. "Okay, maybe when the tracker was cut."

Neal relaxed slightly. Jones squeezed his shoulder.

"Neal." Jones paused, ensuring he had Neal's attention before he continued. "You're not worthless. You understand. You're part of the team, our team. Even if trouble always finds you. Us."

Neal squinted.

"Okay, mostly you." Jones shook his head. "Neal, Peter doesn't think you're worthless. He's never said that. Ever. You have to let him know what's happened. And why!"

The doors slid open then. Jones wanted to give Neal the space to talk with Peter. Besides, he'd just had a joyride to 14 of the building's floors. At each one Neal had swayed forward to leave. Then tried to press the buttons again. It had been an effort.

* * *

Peter watched Jones, watching him move Neal through the bullpen.

The conference room was now occupied by Ruiz and Diana.

Ruiz was ranting on the phone to his supervisor:

Caffrey had wandered in with Maury Trenton...  
Spent more than an hour in the Zazze Club...  
Stumbled out the rear door with Trenton having to hold him up, drunk or something...  
He'd followed Caffrey...  
Picked him up...  
Arrested him for obstructing...

Yeah, it didn't make any sense, Trenton dropping him off at the docks...

No, Caffrey hadn't cut his tracker...

Trenton had...

Caffrey had been clutching the tracker when Ruiz arrested him...

Why hadn't he advised the Marshals?...

Didn't know about the BOLO...

Knew about the tracker, though!...

Silence.

Ruiz kept nodding his head on the phone. His eyes had dropped. His shoulders slumped.

He looked up as Burke passed the conference room with Neal in tow. He gave Burke a sneer, snapped his cell (cell phones fail miserably for the slam down) and sat down abruptly.

Diana had also been watching, both Peter and Neal, and Ruiz. She had her arms folded and rocked on her heels. As Peter passed, she shook her head back and forth, raised her eyebrows and smirked at Ruiz's discomfort.

Peter, for lack of any better place, tried to get Neal to sit in his office. He knew the young man desperately needed sleep. They all did. Neal instead moved to the window. He leaned against the cool glass, then tucked himself into the corner next to the window. Somehow he managed to stay standing. Neal seemed distant, staring vacantly out the window. Peter didn't want to walk away from him: Neal's behavior concerned him; Jones behavior concerned him, too. He really needed to start getting clear answers.

Neal was watching him. "I'm fine, Peter."

Peter realized he'd been lost in his thoughts. He still held Neal's arm.

"Right."

Neal's mouth tweaked into a slim smile. "Not going anywhere. Do what you need."

Neal never failed to know when Peter was antsy. Peter wanted a one-on-one with Neal. He needed Neal's version of events, hopefully a straight account of events—there was always hoping. However, until he dealt with Ruiz, Peter didn't feel he could give Neal his full attention.

"Stay," Peter quipped.

Neal barely managed to roll his eyes and went back to staring out the window.

Peter exited his office. He caught Jones' eye and tipped his head back towards Neal. Jones nodded back.

Jones was back on Caffrey-sitting duty. He watched Peter disappear into the conference room. He heard the volume go up as Peter and Ruiz started in on a heated question-and-answer session, Peter holding the floor, Ruiz answering.

Hughes had been apprised of the situation.

The Marshals had been called off, none too happy with Ruiz, nor the FBI as a whole.

Movement brought Jones' attention back to Peter's office. Jones' curiosity piqued as he watched Neal pull something from Peter's desk, Neal still clinging to the walls for support. His eyes widened as Neal went to Hughes' office door. A door kept locked. Hughes didn't have secrets, he just had confidential memos and personnel files, as well as case files, on his desk. Neal swung the door open before Jones registered the thought.

Jones bounded up the stairs. He flung the door open, stopping short, mouth gaping.

Leave it to Neal to find the only comfy spot in the whole place. Hughes had a couch, or what passed for one—you couldn't truly lay down on it—but curled on his side, Neal succeeded in sleeping on the small couch.

Jones smiled warmly. Neal needed the sleep; he needed off his feet. Jones figured the beating Neal had eluded to in the elevator was significant, enough to endure standing for what was likely hours.

Jones shook his head.

He pulled the door to. He heard the latch click softly.

He checked on Peter. He was still going at Ruiz in the conference room.

Jones headed to his locker. It was just down the hall. He'd only take a moment.


	8. Awake

**08 AWAKE**

* * *

Just a moment. A moment too long.

Jones stopped short as he reached the bottom of the stairs in the bullpen. His eyes flicked between Peter, who had just exited the conference room, and Hughes, who now stood at the door to his office.

"Someone wanna tell me why there's a sleeping Caffrey on my couch?" Hughes thumbed over his shoulder.

Peter shot Jones a suspicious look.

Jones shrugged, a perfectly-executed Caffrey _'W__ho? Me?'_ shrug. It's hard, however, to look innocent with an army blanket and pillow tucked under your arm.

Peter rolled his eyes; he wasn't sure he wanted to know how Neal got into Hughes' office - suffice to say he was there now. Peter gestured to his office and Hughes obliged.

Hughes wasn't the type of boss to micro-manage his people but he liked to get out in the field, or be updated directly; he liked to have eye contact with his team. When he had talked to Peter, Peter sounded tired but at the same time prepared to pull Agent Joseph Ruiz apart limb by limb. Anything where Caffrey was involved took on a life of its own. Certainly not that Caffrey wasn't a valuable asset to the team, just that at times he could be a liability. An incredibly talented, intelligent, annoying liability. All things _Caffrey_ aside, Hughes liked the young man; he'd hoped that Peter would rub off on him, not the other way around. Yet the two held such mutual respect for each other that Hughes was willing to defer to Peter in all things Caffrey.

Peter soon had Hughes fully apprised of Ruiz's side of events. Hughes was none too happy. He proceeded to tear a strip off Ruiz, demanding a full report on his desk by Monday, and then dismissed him without so much as letting Ruiz get a _'but'_ in.

Hughes directed that Neal remain in Peter's custody at the Bureau until his involvement with Zantele was _clarified_. And Agent Jones may as well stay to help Peter with that duty, as Jones already seemed to be very helpful. Hughes had eyed Jones with a warning look, coupled with the faintest of smiles.

* * *

_Neal was in the ocean surrounded by jellyfish. Big purple and red jellyfish with long tendrils that buoyed up and down on the current. He struggled to move away from them, fearful of their poisonous sting. The tendrils caressed him, soft, cool, part of him. A wave swept over him, tossing and tumbling him onto the beach with so many jellyfish. So many __other__ jellyfish. He could feel the sun baking down on his back—burning, aching, searing into him._

Neal woke with a start.  
He was sweaty and cold.  
He was ... he was in Hughes' office.  
He shouldn't be in Hughes' office.  
Hughes always had his door locked.

Not good.

It was night; the glow of the city illuminated Hughes' office. A fluorescent light hummed just outside and cast shadows into the room. Neal sighed. Thankfully it was Saturday. He was sure it must still be Saturday. He still ached. He still felt tired. He desperately needed a shower. He was thirsty.

Neal rolled his feet off the couch. He moved to bring his hands up to his face, only his right hand faltered, the rattle of metal on metal snapping his head around at the cuffs holding him to the small couch.

Neal sighed, a deep, frustrated, tired sigh. _Peter __was__ mad at him._

Neal looked around the room. He was alone.  
Neal listened intently. Nothing. Almost nothing: he could swear he heard someone snoring. No, he could definitely hear someone snoring.

He no longer had the 'picks' pilfered from Peter's desk.  
His wrists were still bruised and swollen from Ruiz's cuffs.  
Someone had wrapped his wrist with something soft against the metal, still not enough room to slip the cuff.

Neal stood.  
The desk was out of reach.  
Out of reach was relative only to the space Neal and the couch now occupied.

Neal lifted the end of the couch and gently moved it and himself to Hughes' desk.

Neal picked the cuff on both the couch and himself.  
He slid the couch back in its rightful place.  
He folded the army blanket, and tucked it and the pillow under his arm.  
He also picked up the power drink that had been left beside the couch. Jones. Neal smiled.

Neal slipped out of Hughes' office, locking same as he pulled the door shut.  
He could see Jones, his head buried into his arms at his desk, his chest rising rhythmically in sleep.

He peered into Peter's office.  
Peter's feet were propped on his desk, his head tipped to one side, a soft snore escaping his lips. Neal watched him. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, Peter wasn't all that mad at him and would understand the situation he now faced.

Neal carefully placed the cuffs on the desk and slipped out of Peter's office.  
He left the pillow and blanket beside Jones.  
Then he was through the bullpen and down the stairs.

* * *

_Peter was by the ocean, on a long sandy beach. He didn't recognize the place. It was beautiful, peaceful, with the surf gently rolling in. Large trees lined the edge of the beach, some twisted and turned by the wind, others more protected, rising high above the beach. Peter looked at his feet, bare, wet and covered with ... covered with jellyfish. Peter jumped back._

Peter woke with a start.  
He was in his office.  
He'd fallen asleep.  
He shouldn't have been asleep.

Not good.

It was night; the glow of the city illuminated the office. Peter's eyes slowly focused; he blinked, then he jumped up, scooping the cuffs off his desk.

"Shit," he muttered, as he thumped into Hughes' locked door.

"Jones!"

Jones was already on his feet. He quickly realized what had happened.

"Shit," Peter muttered again, throwing the cuffs back on his desk. He put his hands on his hips and started pacing his office. "No Neal. No tracker. Shit."

Jones was speaking to the security desk. He was nodding his head. _Yes. No. No. Yes._ "What?"

He looked up at Peter. "Are you sure?"

"What?"

"No one has left the building, except those with passkeys and codes. No alarms." Jones shrugged.

Peter's eyes danced around. Then he stared at the cuffs on his desk.

"Stay here."

Jones opened his mouth, and turned, following Peter's exit from the office.

Peter raised a hand up. "I've got it."

Peter skipped the elevator and hoofed it down to the 6th floor.

He paused in the foyer of the Art Crimes Unit.  
The Art Crimes Unit had been brought into existence in 2004.  
Peter often worked with the team - the acquisition and exchange of money for artwork often coexisted with the white-collar crimes he investigated, Caffrey being a good example.

Peter liked the Art Crimes floor.  
They had numerous works of art - copies, forgeries, a few originals - adorning the walls and in display cases.

Peter turned down the corridor, which soon widened into an access point for several offices and a conference room.

Neal leaned heavy into one wall, transfixed with the painting in front of him.

"Peter."

"Are you trying to give me heart failure?"

Neal let out a low "mmpph," his eyes fixed on the painting.

Peter had found him here several times.  
Admiring the painting.  
Contemplative.  
Often so lost in his thoughts that Peter had to call his name more than once before the young man would look around at him.

The painting was a well-executed copy of _ '__The Storm on the Sea of Galilee' _that had been given to the Art Crimes Team by an anonymous donor. The painting held a place of prominence in the office, a constant reminder of the stolen art the team still sought from the theft from the Gardner Museum in 1990, one of the largest property crimes in U.S. history, conservatively $500 million.

Peter stood beside Neal, who continued to stare at the painting.

"Why the fascination with this painting?"

Neal turned his head to Peter, silent. Peter finally gave him a _'__What' _look. Neal went back to the painting.

Peter sighed. He still needed answers from Neal. Yet... Neal seemed ... lost.

"It's a good copy," Peter finally offered.

Neal gave Peter another long look.

"It's nearly as good as one of your _forgeries_," Peter continued.

"It's not."

"I wasn't suggesting ..."

"It's not."

"Not what?"

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

Neal glared at Peter this time.

"Look, Neal, I know you like this painting but ..."

"Like?" Neal scoffed.

"It's not like it's the real one."

"It is."

"Is what?" Peter was getting tired of dancing around with two-word sentences.

"Real." Neal finally breathed out softly.

Peter now glared at Neal. "What!"

Neal's attention remained fixed on the painting.

Peter grabbed Neal's shoulders and swung him around. He held him against the wall. "What?"

"I knew you were mad at me."

"What?" Peter kept losing Neal's avenue of thought.

"I wasn't mad at you until two seconds ago."

"You were yelling at me all night."

"I haven't yelled at you until now." Peter glowered. "But the way it's going I'll be doing a lot more."

Peter yanked Neal around to leave but Neal pulled against him, his head twisted back towards the painting.

"Oh, no. No. Enough from you."

Peter held Neal tightly just above the elbow.

His eyes fixed on Neal, commanding his full attention.

"He's going to kill me."

The words rolled out so calm that it took a moment for Peter to fully register what Neal had just stated.

Peter's eyes darted, his face close to Neal's.

"Who?"

"Zantele."

"The man Ruiz ranted on about?"

Neal nodded his head slowly.

"How the hell did you get involved with a syndicate boss?" Peter demanded. "Wait. No. Don't bother answering that."

"I didn't." Neal defended.

"Oh, no. Out of the blue Zantele randomly bumps into you and decides he doesn't like your suit, so he's going to kill you."

"My suit's a classic," Neal chided.

"It's not about the suit, Neal!" Peter's voice continued to rise.

"No, Peter! It's about someone killing me."

"I'm considering it right now."

"Thanks for the support."

"Neal."

Peter stopped. He suddenly recognized how tired he'd become. _He hadn't been home. He'd talked to El on the phone, updated her, told her how sorry he was for another lost weekend. Apologized again. She'd reassured him, supported him as always, and reminded him to see beyond the obvious when dealing with Neal. Her insight was keen as ever. _

Peter released his grip on Neal.

Neal rubbed at his arm. _One more ache to go with the rest. Fine. Peter wasn't just yelling at him anymore. Maybe he should just throw his arms up in surrender. Once Peter found out about the painting, he'd be back in prison for a very long time anyway. That's of course if Zantele didn't get to him first. He'd always fended for himself, survived. But now. Now he wanted Peter to help him. He needed Peter to help him. Cornered, trapped; he didn't like the feeling._

Neal suddenly sank to the floor. His head pushed into his knees and his hands defensively wrapped over his head.

Peter grabbed for Neal as he slumped to the floor. His hands came to rest on Neal's shoulders as he curled his arms over his head.

"Hey. Hey, come on," Peter coaxed. "Neal, come on."

Peter could feel the young man trembling. He wanted nothing more than to reassure Neal he was there to support him.

"Neal, look at me." He grasped Neal's wrists and slowly but firmly pulled them away from his head.

"Look at me," Peter quietly ordered.

Neal finally brought his head up.

He met Peter's patient gaze with glazed eyes.

Peter ran his hand along Neal's neck and held the back of his head.

Peter steadied his breathing; whatever had happened with this Zantele character had thrown Neal completely off stride. With this painting thing Peter had even more unanswered questions. Losing his temper with Neal wasn't constructive. It might feel good for a brief moment, but... _Time to see beyond the obvious!_

* * *

O O O

And yes, _'__The Storm on the Sea of Galilee' _is a real painting and still remains stolen to date, with a $5 million dollar reward for all the art stolen in 1990 from the Gardner Museum—the FBI has info up on their website, this being the 20th anniversary of the theft.

P.S. If you haven't already read FanFic - "At What Price?" - give it a read.


	9. Home

**09 HOME**

* * *

"We'll get through this. Okay? We'll get through." Peter tapped Neal's shoulder.

The _'we_' was all Neal needed, all he'd ever needed.

Peter stood up and put a hand out to Neal.

Neal took the proffered hand, never taking his eyes from Peter's.

Peter pulled Neal up. _Damn if the man didn't have one hell of a grip._

"Let's sort this painting thing out." Peter patiently guided Neal back to the White Collar Unit.

* * *

Jones was on the phone when Peter returned with Neal. He hoped Peter would forgive him the momentary lapse, even though it was Peter who suggested he put his head down. _He should have stayed awake as back-up for Peter, especially when it came to Neal._

Peter stopped at his desk.

Jones couldn't help himself. "You really are the only one that can catch Caffrey."

Peter gave him a sly smile. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Would you grab some water? Then we'll see about getting something to eat."

"How about a couple more power drinks? Puts the electrolytes up."

Peter nodded, then picked up the army blanket and headed to the conference room with Neal in tow.

Peter managed to settle Neal into a conference room chair, the blanket tossed over his shoulders.

Neal leaned forward and nestled his head into his arms. His body seemed overwhelmingly heavy. Then a firm hand found its way onto his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. The tension eased. His muscles relaxed. He fought to keep his eyes open but the light kept fading.

Jones half bounded into the conference room with three power drinks gripped in one hand and a couple of bars in the other.

"What, I keep them for workouts and stakeouts," he responded to Peter's questioning look.

"Did he tell you about...?"

"About Ruiz? About Zantele? About the painting?"

Jones seemed surprised at the painting. "No, about the ..."

"Beating." Neal finished, not lifting his head, Peter's hand still resting on his shoulder.

Peter 'd been so preoccupied with Ruiz and his own anger that he hadn't focused much attention on Neal himself.

Peter spun Neal around in his chair to face him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Surprised, Neal grabbed at the table to steady himself. _Oh, great, the angry Peter was back._

"You cuffed me to Hughes' couch before I could say anything!"

"I ... You broke into Hughes' office! You fell asleep on his couch! How was**_I _**supposed to ask******_you_** anything? And ..." Peter put his hands on his hips. "And, it was Hughes who insisted on the cuffs until we got a new tracker back."

_Personally, Peter figured Hughes thought the cuffs were a small reminder for Neal as to exactly whose couch he'd been sleeping on. Hughes knew full well a standard set of cuffs would do nothing to hold Neal._

Neal beamed. An effervescent Neal Caffrey smile.

Peter glowered at Neal. Then looked at Jones. Jones shrugged.

"Hughes? Hughes cuffed me to the couch?"

Peter nodded.

"You're not mad at me?"

Peter shook his head "How many times, how many ways do I have to say NO?"

"You weren't yelling at me all night?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "No."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure. Everything. Nothing. But whatever it is, I'm sorry."

Peter shook his head, "How hard did you get knocked on the head?"

Neal pulled his head back, questioning. "I... I didn't. I don't think I did. Nothing there hurts."

_There.__ What other 'theres' existed__?_ Peter pulled a chair up to Neal. "Time to talk, Neal."

Neal looked up at Jones.

Jones nodded, "Told ya he wasn't mad at you."

Neal smiled again as Jones exited.

* * *

Neal told Peter about the bistro. The setting sun. He really should have come with him. Then Maury spoiling his respite by "kidnapping" him. About the Zazze Club. About Zantele. About Zantele beating him. Ruiz arresting him. Ruiz asking over and over again why he met with Zantele. Neal repeating over and over that he wouldn't talk with him. He'd talk with Peter, but not him. Asking over and over for Ruiz to get Peter. Ruiz hadn't touched him, save for the initial "arrest" and slamming the cuffs on.

Neal absently rubbed at his wrists at the mention.

"Neal."

Neal stopped mid-sentence to meet Peter's very intent gaze.

"I do this for a living." Peter's voice was soft, melodic.

"What?"

"Interview. Not just the perps but the witnesses, the _victims_."

"I'm not..."

"Neal. It's not just about what you've told me but what you haven't."

"But, I..."

"Neal."

"Peter."

"Oh, don't you start switching this around." Peter raised his voice up an octave.

"I'm trying to be honest here." Neal put on the indignant, hurt look.

"I know that." Peter nodded his head, reassuring. "But! You and I both know you've been _editing_. You spent more time telling me about the bistro where Maury picked you up and Ruiz arresting you than what Zantele did to you. Moreover, you haven't once said _why_."

Neal was rubbing his eyes. His head bent forward. Then he pushed his head into the back of the chair. His eyes closed; he took a long, deep breath.

"Not here."

"What?"

"Not here." Neal took in another deep breath. "I can't."

"Can't what? Can't tell me or ..." Peter paused until Neal opened his eyes, "... or, won't tell me?"

"Will. Not here."

"What's wrong with here?" Peter almost sounded hurt.

"Seriously?"

Neal pushed forward in his chair.

"I'm in an FBI building, sitting across from an FBI Special Agent, and you seriously want me to talk openly, candidly?" Neal scoffed. He held his hands up, wrists together. "Why not take me back to prison now, if that's what you're _seriously_ asking me to do."

"Come on?" Peter grumbled, pulling back.

"No, you come on." Neal moved even closer. "Not so long ago your house was bugged; OPR had info beyond what most people, what most FBI agents, can access. Zantele knows virtually all my history, everything, where I live, our agreement, where I go for coffee. Do you really think someone _couldn't_ be listening right now."

Peter opened his mouth in protest, then closed it in resignation.

Neal tipped his head, victorious.

"You sound as paranoid as Mozzie."

"Well, Mozzie's still alive, has never been to jail, and the only time he's been hurt is, well, is ... when he's helping me." Neal looked a little rueful with the last part.

"Okay, fine." Peter stood. "But first, I think we should get you checked out."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No doctors, no hospitals."

"Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Peter mocked.

"No. No, they take way too long. Ask too many questions. They have needles. People die."

"You really do sound like Mozzie."

"Not going." Neal settled himself into his chair. "Been through way worse. No blood loss. No fever. Bruises are already there. What can they do for me?"

Peter studied Neal for a moment, his lips curling up. "I could think of a few things they could do."

Neal scowled.

"Okay. One, you're exhausted. Two, you've been traumatized. _Don't give me that look_. Three, they'll give me a medical report."

Neal sat bolt up right. "Report. No, uh-uh, no way."

"You know damn well it will be harder to go after Zantele without one."

"I suppose you want photographs too?" Neal stood, his face inches from Peter's. "There is no way in hell I'll ever testify as to what Zantele did. He knew that. Not going to happen."

Peter started to open his mouth.

"No, Peter, it's not because of what he did, its because of how everything will be twisted around in court. Everything will be thrown back on me. Lock me up, please; it will be so much easier."

Peter grasped Neal's shoulders.

"There's a lot more to this than the obvious?"

Neal nodded his head ever so slightly. Intense crystal blue eyes conveyed far more than mere words.

"Okay, no reports, no photographs, I'd still like... Okay, no doctors either. But ... we are going to talk. We are going to eat. You are going to have another of Jones' power drinks." _I'm going to go home to my wife. Put my feet up. Forget that I ever met... No, life would never be the same without Neal Caffrey in it._

"Those things taste awful."

"Electrolytes. Or we're back to..."

"Fine."

* * *

Peter sent Jones home to get some much-needed rest. Peter patted him on the shoulder, thanking him for the efforts. Peter also suggested he stop playing around on the elevators and stick to just pressing one button. Jones shot him a dirty look with a sly wink attached; Peter never missed much.

Peter was set to head for his place. Neal, however, refused to go anywhere, particularly Peter's, unless he could get cleaned up first.

Peter requested Diana pick up the tracker from the Marshals, who had been taking their sweet time, and swing by Neal's with it.

An hour plus later, Neal contentedly tossed on a pair of dark gray slacks, a navy turtle neck, pushing the sleeves up to just below the elbows, and slipped on black loafers. He grabbed a jacket, ran his hands through his hair and caught Peter's gaze.

"What?"

Peter just shook his head.

"What?" Neal asked again, his arms parted, questioning.

"You get kidnapped, take a beating, get arrested, held for hours without food or drink, and with just a shower and change of clothing you look like you walked out of a photo shoot."

Neal beamed, his blue eyes twinkling like electric blue jewels.  
If Peter had ever described those eyes to Neal, Neal would have asked if he referred to _Paraiba Tourmaline_ gems or _'Santa Maria' Aquamarine_ gems, of course accompanied by a history of the gemstones and their rarest settings.

Peter shook his head again while motioning Neal out the door.

They met Diana in June's entryway. She spun the new tracker around her fingers. With a coy smile she asked Neal if he missed it.

Neal never skipped a beat. Plucking the tracker from her hands, he leaned in close to her, and suggested she had an ulterior motive in wanting to track his every move. His eyes danced with mischief.

Diana snorted and gave Peter her condolences for having to spend his weekend with Neal.

Neal had then requested, pleaded with, Peter not to activate the tracker until after they spoke. Peter stared at Neal for a long while, his eyes narrowing. Neal's eyes only held a simple unwavering honesty. Peter relented.

Peter finally found himself where he wanted to be, home. He'd plunked Neal on the couch, waved a finger in his face and threatened him that if he even moved a muscle, he'd personally lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key. He wanted, needed, to get cleaned up as much as Neal had done. Although, he doubted he'd look like he just stepped out of some photo shoot.

* * *

"You still sound like Mozzie."

"If you can put a microphone in the tip of a pen, why not into a tracker?"

Neal had a point.

"So, why do you think my home's 'safe'?"

Neal looked abashed.

"Spill it."

"Um, well. Mozzie. He, uh, he..."

"Now."

"... at my request... Weputasystemin."

"A wha ... a system?"

"It tracks all your known electronic signatures; anything unusual sets an alarm off."

Peter let out a long sigh. _Calm, calm, breathe, nice slow breath._ "Who gets the alarm?"

"You do."

"Me?"

"A text and cell message to contact _'D__ante Inc. ASAP__'._"

_How could you want to strangle someone and thank them all in the same instant?_

Peter sighed.

"Okay. I'll get the tracker checked, suffice for now we're _'safe'_."

Neal relaxed a bit. He must have rearranged every object on the bookshelf while he stood talking to Peter.

Elizabeth returned just then from the kitchen with the take-out she had reheated.

"You okay, Neal? Peter's being good to you, isn't he?" She shot a reproving glance at Peter.

"What makes you think I've done anything to him?" Peter griped mockingly.

"Oh, I don't know." She planted a playful kiss on his forehead "You made him stay on the couch for 45 minutes while you got washed up."

"He stayed?"

"Peter," El admonished. "And, yes he did, apologizing profusely at not being able to help me in the kitchen. But he looked more and more uncomfortable as he sat there."

Peter glanced at Neal, apologetic.

They ate, talking to El about her day and giving her bits and pieces of what had happened with Neal.

El held Neal's hand, rubbing her thumb gently across the bruises on his wrists. When he flinched, she flipped his hand and was prepared to go after the man who had so brutally hurt him.

Peter stood, held her shoulders and kissed her, telling Neal he was lucky to have such a champion in Elizabeth.

Neal, had of course, insisted he was fine and Peter had things under control.

Elizabeth cleared the table. She refused to let Peter or Neal help. She was going to finish up in the kitchen and head to bed. She knew they needed to talk; the tracker had sat ominously on the table throughout their late dinner.

* * *

Neal provided further details about Maury Trenton.

Then about Emile Zantele.

Then what Zantele had done to him in detail.

Neal was sitting, his arms pressed together between his knees, often rocking slowly forward then back.

Peter had rearranged his coffee mug, turning the handle one way then the other.

Peter was seething more with each word.

Neal finally paused. He put his hand over Peter's cup.

"Peter, I'm sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?" Peter narrowed his eyes. "Zantele's the one who should be, will be, sorry."

Neal took a deep breath. "No. Peter, uhm, the rest, I ..."

"Neal, I can't help you unless I know what we're up against."

_'We__.' How much longer would __we__ be a reality?_


	10. So,

**10 SO,**

So, to bringing you up to speed—Neal is at Peter's with no tracker. The tracker hasn't been activated because of Neal's insistence that it may be bugged. Peter is trying, painstakingly, to get Neal to fill in the gaps to explain both Zantele's connection to the Rembrandt (Zantele, who beat Neal and wants his father's missing painting returned) and how the original Rembrandt ended up in the FBI.

* * *

"So, hypothetically speaking."

"Neal." Peter spoke with his typical level of _Caffrey_ frustration.

"What do you want me to do, Peter?"

"Trust me."

"You know I do." Neal paused, his eyes soft, open, as honest as Peter had ever seen them. "Right now, I'm not sure I trust myself."

"Okay, hypothetically." Peter sighed. "How did the _real_ Rembrandt end up in the New York FBI Art Crime Unit? Why not Boston?"

"There is one in Boston."

"What."

"Not a real one. A copy."

Peter sighed again. He was still tired and he felt like he was swimming through molasses. Really sticky, sweet molasses. "Go on."

"Maybe we should do this in the morning?" Neal sounded hopeful.

Peter tipped his wrist; it was close to eleven. "And just what are we going to do with you for the night?"

"Do with me?"

"No tracker. Not to mention, _we_ were supposed to stay at the office until we had your side of things. Hughes' direction."

"Oh."

"Just oh?"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Neal cocked his head. "Oh, oh wait. _'Oh, let's throw Caffrey in jail for the night.'_ No. How about, _'Oh, let's handcuff Caffrey to the couch'_."

"That was your own doing." Peter's eyes peered over the lip of his mug as he took another sip of coffee.

Neal gave him a dirty smirk. "How about, _'Oh, let's let Neal go home to his own bed'_."

"Not happening." Peter placed his mug back on the table.

"What then?"

"Damn it! If you run on _me_..."

"Oh, thanks! What happened to the trust thing?"

"I said you should trust me." Peter smiled.

"Sometimes you're a real bas—"

"Enough." El's soft voice quickly snapped two heads in her direction. "You both look exhausted, so neither of you are going anywhere tonight. The spare room is made up, Neal."

Peter started to open his mouth in protest but knew Elizabeth was right. _Not surprising._

"Come on, Neal." El motioned to the stairs.

Neal glanced from El to Peter, lost as to whose direction to follow.

"I think it will be easier to explain to Hughes than to go against El." Peter nodded to the stairs.

Peter rose from the table.  
He stretched, his back snapping.  
He looked down at Neal, who still hadn't moved.

"You can sleep on the couch if you want, but I'm sure the bed is much more comfortable."

"I'm... You're... You're trusting me to stay in your home? Overnight?"

"Does that mean I have to worry about you running?" Peter put both hands down on the table and leaned towards Neal.

Neal continued to regard the stairs as if they were something insurmountable.

"No. What? No. I wouldn't... That's not what..."

"It's okay, Neal."

"But you're usually kicking me out."

"Yeah, and you're usually annoying."

"Do you two ever stop?" Neal and Peter both looked up sheepishly at El.

"Just get up, put one foot in front of the other, and go to bed," Peter directed.

"I don't have—"

"Move!"

Peter rolled his eyes_. One minute he was dealing with an incredibly-intelligent art thief, the next an insecure, hesitant - yet charming - young man. Neal Caffrey: art thief, con man, enigma._

* * *

Neal woke to the smell of pancakes and coffee wafting through the Burke house. Neal couldn't actually remember the last time he'd awakened to the smell of pancakes. He could hear El laughing and then shushing Peter downstairs.

He rolled onto his back. Bad move. He rolled back onto his side, closing his eyes, wanting to breathe in nothing other than the smell of pancakes, coffee, and the muffled sounds of El and Peter.

A cold, wet nose suddenly smacked into his face. Neal lazily rubbed a hand over Satchmo, the dog's tail wagging the entire dog in a rhythmic hello.

Neal noted the bathrobe and towels near the window. El was definitely a very special soul with a soft spot for him. A soft spot he wasn't sure he deserved: he had done nothing to earn it; in fact he'd caused more trouble for El than anything else. Unfortunately, that trend was continuing.

Neal grabbed a quick shower, nearly tripping over Satchmo as he exited the bathroom. His _escort_ pushed himself up and followed him back to the guest room, sitting patiently as he got dressed, then dutifully following him downstairs.

"Well, sleepy head, you decided to join us," El greeted him cheerfully, then looked worried. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"No, but you do have an interesting wake-up committee."

"Satch, you know you're not supposed to be upstairs," El admonished in a playful for-pets-only voice.

The tail wagging the dog became pronounced. The movement garnered a treat and loving pat, with the door opened to let the big dog onto the back deck.

Neal grinned at Peter. "Do you get treats if you...?"

"Not another word, or I'll put you out with Satch. No treats either."

Neal raised his hands in submission.

Somehow, food cooked lovingly by someone else seems to have a taste all its own. Real butter, real maple syrup, fresh coffee, people that really ... friends, family, ... people that really... . Neal suddenly pushed his chair back and headed to the back deck.

Peter was right on his heels, leaving a surprised El sitting alone at the dining room table.

"Neal."

"Please, Peter. Please give me a moment."

Neal's voice seemed so plaintive.

Peter stopped and stood, waiting, patiently waiting.  
Some things in life can't be forced.  
Some things in life take a great deal of time and effort.  
Some things in life are worth the wait.

Neal eventually turned and met Peter's gaze.

"I don't deserve this."

"Who says?"

"Who? ... I. No one. I just don't."

"Neal..."

"No, Peter. I don't know how to make this painting thing right. Every angle I've looked at just gets someone hurt."

"Then stop looking at angles."

"Peter."

"Straight won't ki—"

Neal's agonized look stopped the last word, _kill_.

"Thanks for reminding me."

Peter locked onto Neal's shoulders and studied his face. The small cut and bruising under his right eye were all too evident in the morning light.

"Straight has consequences, Neal; live with them."

Neal took a long shaky breath in.

"So, hypothetically speaking ..."

"... you stole the Rembrandt."

"NOT hypothetically speaking, No." Neal gaped. "And I take great offense that you would think I would do such a thing."

"You wouldn't steal a Rembrandt?"

"Wouldn't rip and tear one. Wouldn't smash frames. Have you ever looked at the frames? They're works of art themselves — hundreds of years old, intricately hand-carved, gilded."

Peter's amused look brought Neal up short.

"The thieves at the Gardner were crass, Peter. They were there for nearly 90 minutes. They tore the paintings, broke frames & glass — absolutely no appreciation."

Peter quietly leaned back on the deck railing, crossing his arms and feet.

"Peter, you know how much pride I take in..."

Peter's fingers were slowly tapping against his arm, his lips turned up in a wry smile.

"... I. You. I. You know..."

"I do know."

"I didn't steal the painting," Neal stated flatly.

"I know, not your modus operandi." Peter smirked. "And you would have been, what, 14?"

"You..." Neal scoffed.

"Hey, thought you could count." Peter shrugged.

Neal spun on his heels and strode back into the house.

Peter followed.

"Where's El?"

"She rearranged her schedule, so we have the house all day."

"She shouldn't have to do that." Neal looked around with some apprehension.

"Yes, buddy, that means you have no back-up." Peter knew El provided a cushion for Neal. Today he'd have to go it alone.

"Dishes, then talk."

Neal caught the dish towel before it smacked into his face. He rolled his eyes, scowling at Peter.

* * *

"So..."

"... Hypothetically speaking."

"No more _hypothetical_, Neal."

Neal contemplated Peter, his eyes narrowing, then closing. He opened them again to Peter's steady gaze. "Fine."

"You came into possession of the Rembrandt?"

"Yes."

"You forged the painting?"

"Several times." Neal bit at his bottom lip.

"Several times?"

Neal held up four fingers.

"Four times?" Peter rubbed the back of his neck.

Neal counted each finger. "Yup, four."

"You're not helping."

"How so?" Neal's _oh so innocent_ look plastered his face.

Peter waved a four-fingered hand at Neal.

"Yup, definitely four."

Peter humphed.

"You're the one who suggested my counting was off; I'm just exercising due diligence in being honest."

Peter stood and paced the floor. "Okay. You forged four paintings."

"Of the Rembrandt."

"Yes, the Rembrandt." Peter's annoyance rang through.

Neal shrank back into the couch. "This isn't easy."

Peter stopped his pacing and glared down at Neal.

"You ask me to be honest, then question me like a suspect. I have no guarantees here, Peter."

"Information about the Gardner art has an offer of immunity."

Neal scoffed.

"It does."

"I know. Only you have to give up names, how you got the info, testify before a grand jury, and you can't even plead the Fifth. Really useless as an immunity offer. Of course, there is a 5 million dollar reward. Trust me, I thought about it, then and now."

"Now doesn't apply."

Peter answered Neal's questioning look. "You're not just a C.I.; you're a consultant — ID, a stipend, your own desk, part of a team. You, _we_, aren't permitted to collect rewards."

"Great!" Neal threw his hands up. "No reward. No immunity. No life."

"You have a life."

"I soon won't."

"Neal, the outcome is up to you." Peter shook his head. "You're not in this alone."

Silence.

Silence, except for the thumping of Satch's tail. Satchmo, who thought he was an integral part of the conversation, had not left Neal's side. Neal reached down, absently rubbing the big dog's belly. Neal looked up at Peter and then settled back into the couch. Crossing his legs, so his ankle sat over his left knee, Neal casually brushed at his pant leg.

"Remember our meeting in '04."

"You offered me a chair in my own interview room; how could I forget?"

"You made me wait three hours; I made myself at home."

Peter snorted.

"Home never lasted too long, Peter. This persistent FBI agent was chasing me."

"I had a tip."

"I almost came gift wrapped."

"Wasn't enough for an arrest. Just a chat."

"You have no idea how close you came."

Neal paused, then finally let the breath he was holding out.

"I had the Rembrandt wrapped around my leg."

Peter's eyes widened. He opened, then closed his mouth.

Neal held up a hand. "Please, please just let me."

Peter gave a still-disbelieving nod, especially considering the size of the painting.

"I had the Rembrandt. You had me. I had a tip. You had a tip. I had my tip first. My partner... I. It doesn't ... I mean... He sold me out!"

To Neal, Peter looked like a cat ready to pounce. Neal took a breath and steadied himself.

"Here it is:

"We hooked up in southern France. The Rembrandt was already in his possession, some side deal with the backers of the theft: he'd sell the painting and then replace it with a forgery with part of the take going back to the backers. He could forge a painting, just not as good, so he put the word out, and we hooked up. I did the paintings, we alternated on the pitch, then we'd retrieve the original.

"I know that look, Peter." Neal took a breath.

"We had very discerning buyers: they paid for the best to authenticate the painting. Our connections also provided for some provenance. The trick came in switching the painting out — patience, timing and stealth — one little thing out of place and..."

Neal flicked his hand across his throat.

"Things got tense when a certain FBI agent started knocking on doors. Our last mark got antsy, so we moved things up. Only my counterpart decided I'd become a liability. He tipped you off. I got word about it and switched the painting out before he did. He got my forgery and the mark got one of his older forgeries. That's the forgery the FBI ended up with, one of his. Kinda of worked in my favor. No way the mark would give the FBI any info; the painting the FBI thought was real — wasn't, and the painting that wasn't — didn't match up to the works you were trying to credit me with forging. Case closed."

"No."

"No?"

"No names, no..."

"You're not supposed to use real names in hypotheticals."

"Hypotheticals? And you call me persistent."

"Did I use your name?"

Peter rubbed his hands over his face. "Ohhh, I need something stronger than coffee."

Neal stood.

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter snapped at Neal.

Neal halted, startled by Peter's sudden ire.

"Peter, even in prison you're allowed bathroom breaks."

Neal considered the big dog, who'd sat down on his right foot when he stopped, and now pushed against his leg. "Well, Satch, your master rubs my nose in everything else, do you think he'd—"

Neal hastily retreated up the stairs, as Peter slowly stood.

Peter held his hands over his face again, then ran them through his hair. Neal's knack for creating as many questions as he answered frustrated Peter to no end. His own hunger, however, he could rectify without too much effort.

Peter had just completed his deviled ham masterpiece when Neal entered the kitchen and just as quickly spun on his heels and exited, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Hey, don't knock it until you try it," Peter called after him.

Peter made himself comfortable at the dining room table, while Neal paced back and forth.

"There's lots to eat; help yourself."

Neal shook his head. "I'm good."

"I need some clarification."

"No names."

"Neal, this is serious."

"Like I don't know. I just admitted to forging a stolen Rembrandt. Four times." Neal's frustration was evident in the increasing pitch of his voice.

"Neal."

The softness of Peter's voice drew Neal back to the table. He grabbed a chair, spun it around and straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair, nestling his chin into them, then he fixed a questioning gaze on Peter.

Peter sighed softly. "Neal, as far as I'm concerned you've recited a tale of a con man who planned a dangerous and foolish con. Four times."

Neal gave him a relaxed smile. "Four times."

"How about you answer my questions as if I were a book editor, instead of you taking offense and feeling like a suspect."

"You're going to make my story, um tale, into a book? Do I get royalties? What about a movie deal?"

"Yes, a book that ends with a crazed FBI agent who shoots his frustrating, annoying consultant."

Neal eyed Peter with trepidation.

"Ask your questions?"

0 0 0


	11. Waiting

**11 WAITING**

PREVIOUSLY: It's still the weekend and Peter is still trying to get Neal to give up the details on the Rembrandt. Peter has promised to consider the information as just part of a story and not as an admission; well, at least Neal hopes he has promised.

* * *

"How does Zantele tie into this?"

"His father, John Adam Ames."

"Ames? He was one of the first targets for the Art Crimes Unit."

"He really did appreciate art. He just liked shopping for the pieces hanging in museums."

"And you offered him Rembrandt's _'Storm'_."

"His favorite. He'd have died a happy man with an extremely good forgery. He had the original authenticated and provided us cash and bearer bonds. Ironic that some of those bonds turned out to be of my own making." Neal spoke wistfully, then quickly continued, allowing Peter no time to formulate any questions about the bonds. "Then you showed up. You spoiled a perfectly-good plot. Great characters. The hero was just about to execute a well-orchestrated plot twist aka switch the real for the forgery. Well, that kinda happened anyway, but the point is—"

"The point is, how did the Rembrandt end up on the wall in the New York Art Crimes Unit without being noticed?" Peter interjected.

"The point is," Neal continued, "the whole thing got derailed. I managed to miss being hit from all sides. Still, your boys picked me up for questioning before the original was secured. It's dangerous to change a plot halfway through; it can be very stressful on the character development."

"Stressful! For which character, you or me?"

"Peter, you came so close, my heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest. I didn't know what info you had at the time. I thought for sure you were going to arrest me that night. And there I was, sitting with a Rembrandt wrapped around my leg in an FBI interview room. Waiting to be questioned. Arrested. To be strip searched. Then it would have been game over. Instead, I started to get little bits of info, together with my walk-in to the unit, I had everything I needed."

Neal paused, intently checking Satchmo's repositioning efforts.

Peter had questions but held them back and waved his hand for Neal to continue.

_'To continue burying myself_,' Neal thought.

"The interview room was in the newly-created Art Crimes Unit. Not very big at the time but lots of renovation going on; lots of things—photographs, paintings—packed in boxes and stacked here and there. Early enough in the day that some trades were still in working on the reno. Idle hands, Peter. You left me waiting. I couldn't bear the wait. I'd heard enough to let me know that you'd be at least an hour or two. No one else seemed interested in me, so..."

"You got yourself out of the interview room, found a frame for the painting, and weeks later when the reno was finished, the painting gets hung with no one the wiser. What happened to your _partner_?"

Neal shrugged.

"Really helpful."

"_Really_. I don't know. I do know that the forgery was seized when the FBI raided Ames's properties and your tipster hinted that the forgery was one of mine. That Ames died eight months later before any charges went to the grand jury for the other works he had acquired."

"I know this part of the story; tell me something I _don't _know."

"The sequel? The antagonist, Ames's son, Zantele, wants the painting that his father coveted. He blames his father's obsession with the painting, and hence me, for his father's demise. Peter." Neal paused. Realization flooded into a now-anxious voice, "It's possible he blames the FBI—_you_—as well."

Peter narrowed his eyes, breathing slow and steady, finally letting a long breath out.

"Neal, this story's fast coming back to reality. Zantele gave you two weeks, right? I need to make some calls."

With that Peter stood and walked out of Neal's earshot. He talked on his cell, never taking his eyes from Neal at the dining room table. Neal fidgeted, his features slowly belying his increasing apprehension.

Peter completed his calls and returned to Neal.

"Jones will have the new tracker for you by six, _certified bug-free_. He confirmed the cut one had already been scrapped, so no, we don't know if it was bugged. Diana's finishing up with the last of the history from Ruiz's operation. We're going to have to work with Ruiz on this one, like it or not. Diane's secured the Rembrandt, too. That leaves pulling everyone together to figure out how to resolve this without you getting locked up, or killed."

Neal shivered.

"I'm considering a safe house."

Neal wrinkled his nose. "He gave me two weeks; it wouldn't make sense for Zantele to kill me _before_ I got him his father's painting."

"Ummm, it's not to protect you from Zantele, not now anyway, but from yourself."

"We're back to the trust thing. I haven't run. I've answered all your stupid questions. I've suffered through your deviled ham."

Neal caught himself. "Sorry."  
He closed his eyes. "Your questions weren't stupid."  
He sighed. "Peter, I'm still not... I'm not used to anyone, you know. I'm not..."

Neal hesitated.

"What?"

"You promise. You promise, right?"

Neal sunk his head between his arms. His knuckles turning white as he tried to keep the sudden thought of being locked away indefinitely from invading his consciousness. His fear of Zantele's death threats, equally fighting for prominence, brought an overwhelming sense of despair to him.

So many exhausting memories swept over him.

_He remembered sitting in the interview room with the clock counting the seconds away endlessly. The smell of drywall and fresh paint. The urge to run. The necessity of remaining calm. Then being dragged to Zantele's, the smell of stale beer and Maury Trenton's fingers digging into his arms. Then.._.

Neal jumped, swiftly rising and backing out of the chair he had been straddling. He might have remained standing, except for his ever-present dog escort, who had sprawled himself next to the chair.

Neal's sudden movement had startled both Satchmo and Peter.

Satchmo responded faithfully, trying to rise from his slumber to ensure Neal would be greeted appropriately. He instead caught Neal across the back of his legs, throwing Neal backwards.

Peter initially pulled back, then realized Satchmo's precarious placement behind Neal. He reached out, grabbing at Neal's right arm and catching him at the elbow. It wasn't enough to stop Neal's descent, until he felt fingers wrapping around his forearm. Unfortunately, Satchmo's efforts to extract himself from the melee didn't allow for Peter to step forward to maintain his own balance.

Neal thumped down on his butt, one leg raised over Satchmo, the other shifting between Peter's feet. Neal released Peter's forearm in an attempt to stop himself from falling back further. The momentum, however, had been created, and Peter was coming on the trip to earth with him. They both landed in a heap on the floor with Satchmo grumbling as he pulled himself away from the two men. Peter pushed himself up from Neal. Neal gawked at him in utter surprise.

"Seriously?" Neal quipped.

"Seriously what?" Peter snorted. He could feel the ache in both knees, as they had taken most of his weight.

Neal glared up at him; he started to snicker, then burst into a fit of laughter. Suddenly rolling to his side, he knocked Peter over and onto his side. Peter glared back at him, only to have a smile slowly creep across his face, until he gave into Neal's contagious laughter.

"You're a pain, Caffrey," Peter finally managed.

"_Me?_" Neal mocked, "You're the one with the bizarre interviewing techniques."

Peter sat up and brushed at the knees of his jeans. He twisted back towards Neal, who had his head propped up in his hand. The floor appeared to have captured his attention. Peter whacked him on the lower leg.

"Ow!" Neal yelped, more surprised than hurt. "What was that for?"

"Laying around studying my floor might be interesting to you, but we still have work to do."

"Work?"

"Yes, I consider saving your sorry ass work."

Peter got up to his feet; standing over Neal, he extended a hand to him. Neal took it.

"Well, Peter, _your work_ saving my ass has been piss poor of late."

Peter's loosened his grip.

Neal felt Peter's grip slide as he thumped back down on his butt. He let out a groan, wincing in pain. He looked up, catching Peter's disapproving glower turn to concern. Two hands shot towards him.

"Damn, I..."

"Peter."

Neal's calmness cut through Peter.

"No, I ... I didn't think."

"Peter."

Neal's calm insistence finally stopped Peter's efforts to right him and dust him off. Peter's brown eyes reflected reassuring, soft blue eyes.

"Peter, it's okay, really." Neal nodded.

Then the mischief crept back in. "I know how important my ass is to you."

Peter rubbed his hand across his eyes.

"The story really does end with the FBI agent killing his consultant."

Neal smiled. "Guess I just thought you'd skipped ahead to the ending when you put your hand on my shoulder."

"Yeah, I'll remember to give you advance warning in future. Or get a long pole."

"Funny, ha ha. Now, I'm hungry."

Neal never skipped a beat, moving from one thought, one action, to another effortlessly._ 'ADHD,'_ Peter thought.

Neal, however, headed to the front door instead of the kitchen.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"_We're_ going." Neal corrected.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Come on, Peter, other than really awesome pancakes, I've had nothing but take-out since Friday."

Peter plunked his hands onto his hips, and cocked his head to the side. "How did I ever get talked into all this?" He shook his head solemnly. "Fine, where are we going?"

Neal beamed like a kid heading out for ice cream.

"You can wipe that supercilious smile off your face," Peter admonished. "You're not out of the woods yet."

"We can eat first, right?"

"Yes."

"My choice?"

"YES."

"Can we go now?"

"Lead the way."

* * *

Nearly two hours later they had returned to Peter's.

Neal, satiated with his perfectly-prepared barrimundi and truffle pommes frites, had tried in vain to explain to Peter that their meal was not fish and chips. Peter suggested that if it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, no matter what name it went by, it was still fish and chips. Peter naturally balked at the price, suggesting he was paying for a fancy _soubriquet._ Neal immediately challenged Peter to spell 'soubriquet'. Peter agreed only if Neal conceded in defeat to call the meal fish and chips. Neal thanked Peter for his _fish and chips_.

It was now late afternoon. Peter yawned. An exhausting week, an even more exhausting start to the weekend, then trying to keep pace with Neal over the weekend, was starting to exact a toll on him. Neal on the other hand seemed to have rebounded completely. Peter expected at any minute to find him bouncing on the furniture. Peter stopped his rambling thoughts when he met Neal's intense blue eyes running across his face. He tried to stifle another yawn.

"Yawning is an effort to stay engaged with the speaker, even though you desperately need sleep."

"Huh?"

"I really wouldn't mind if you had a nap, Peter."

"A nap? Buddy boy, if you ever ask me if I need a nap again..."

Peter's stern tone brought Neal's hands quickly up into submission.

"I wasn't suggesting. I just thought... You were yawning."

Peter continued to glare at Neal.

"Peter, everyone needs sleep. If you're tired you should—"

"What I should do, is get you a shovel for the hole you're digging yourself."

Neal sucked his breath in and retreated to the couch, muttering something about _never being able to get out of the hole he had already dug_. He sunk into the couch, only to find himself covered with a spray of glass.

* * *

O O O

My kids keep asking, "What ya writing mom?", "Ah, just some fun.", "Can we read it?" "Ah, hahahahhahha. NO."


	12. Art

**12 ART**

Previously: Neal was still at Peter's filling him in on how he came into possession of the _"Storm on the Sea of Galilee"_ by Rembrandt. - Neal sucked his breath in and retreated to the couch, muttering something about never being able to get out of the hole he had already dug. He sank into the couch, only to find himself covered with a spray of glass.

O O O

* * *

"Get down!" Peter yelled.

He was beside Neal, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him to the floor.

More bullets pelted against the windows.  
The sound of glass popping filling the room.

A horn started blaring outside, followed by shouts of "FBI! STOP!" Jones.

Seconds later Diana pounded on the front door. "Peter! Open up. Peter!"

Peter, still crouching, moved to open the door. He shoved Neal back down to the ground.

"Stay until I've cleared it," he ordered.

"Nice timing."

"You good?"

"Yup."

"Be right back." Diana headed after Jones. Sidearm drawn.

"We're good," Peter hollered at Neal.

Neal stood and shook some of the glass from him. Small shards sparkled in his dark hair and on his clothing. Not being the first time he'd been covered in glass, he knew better than to try to brush it off. He looked around at Peter and then at the front windows. They both surveyed the damage. Small divots dotted the glass, each with a hole in the center that had penetrated the panes.

"Small caliber," Neal offered.

Neal never ceased to amaze Peter with the unusual things he knew. "Yeah, maybe a .22. How did you...? No, never mind. I thought Zantele gave you two weeks?"

"He did. Why does this have to be about me?"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

Neal pursed his lips and turned back to the windows.

"Not good. This is not good," Peter muttered. He seemed to have paled somewhat.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, for now."

"Peter, I'm missing it?"

"No, I might be missing it."

Neal still wasn't catching Peter's drift, until he realized Peter was no longer just looking at the holes in the windows but the torn sheers and drapes, which had fortunately stopped much of the glass from spraying over them. The couch too now sparkled with glass, as did much of the coffee table and rug.

"Ohhhh, ouch." Neal finally recognized Peter's distress. "El's not gonna be happy with this?"

"Nope," Peter breathed out.

Diana and Jones entered then, both breathing heavy.

"Sorry, boss, we lost 'em," Diana panted.

"Couldn't get a good look either. Young, maybe 20, 25 at the most." Jones finished.

"Thanks. Why are you...? Yeah, the tracker. But Diana?"

"Thought I should update you on some recent activity with Zantele."

Sirens could be heard.

"We'll update the locals," Diana informed Peter. "Do you think this is tied in with Zantele?"

"Don't know but I'm sure as hell gonna find out. This is personal now."

"It wasn't before?" Neal chimed in.

Peter gave Neal a reproving look. "No, it wasn't."

"Well, I take my life personally even if you don't."

"I don't."

Obvious hurt flickered across Neal's face.

"Neal, you and I do what we do, you know the score. This is my home. El could have been here. That makes it personal."

Neal sighed in understanding.

"We don't have much time to play this out; if this was Zantele, I want him."

"We're all set for a meeting in the a.m., Peter. I've been looking further into Zantele; there's been a lot of international chatter over the last month. Seems Zantele's connections recently have gone outside the U.S., we just don't know why."

Peter shot Neal an accusing glance.

"What?"

"You know what."

"The Storm?"

"The painting?" Diana queried.

"Yup." Peter sighed. "Long story though. I'll give you both the short version after we've cleared with the locals and cleaned up." He shot Neal another accusing glance.

* * *

"So, seriously, the painting that was hanging in the Art Crimes Unit is the _real_ Rembrandt?" Jones asked for the third time.

"Yes." Peter was starting to get testy.

Diana hadn't said a word, seemingly lost in some far-off thought.

Neal had fidgeted the entire time Peter had recounted the story, Peter shushing him each time he tried to interject. Mostly as his interjections involved reminders that it was _just a story, hypothetical, names shouldn't be_... He stopped only after Peter threatened to lock him out on the deck with Satchmo until they'd finished.

Diana let out a long, slow whistle, immediately capturing everyone's attention. "I held a Rembrandt in my hands and thought nothing of it." She continued to stare down at the dining room table, slowly tracing circles on the table surface. She lifted her head when she realized all conversation had stopped.

"I think Caffrey has skewed my sense of reality." she eventually offered up.

"He does have a tendency to warp reality," Jones agreed.

"An annoying proclivity," Peter corrected.

"Still in the room." Neal rolled his eyes. "Am I allowed to speak now?"

"No!" Three voices greeted him in unison.

* * *

Neal huffed.

Plans had been made for a safe house. Neal had protested, suggesting that if Zantele had connections enough to tamper with his tracker he may be able to locate a safe house. Peter reassured him they would take his concerns into consideration. In other words—like it or lump it. In reality they still had nothing to link Zantele to a bug in the tracker, nor for that matter with shooting at Peter's house, which seemed more of a scare tactic given the small caliber used. Regardless, Neal's new abode was a 'safe house'.

Neal sighed.

His distaste for safe houses had steadily grown over the years. A good part of his life revolved around safe houses—small, impersonal semi-prisons. Places to run and hide. Never calling any place home. Even now, Neal had yet to accept the loft as home. It was June's—a borrowed space, the decor picked by others, with only a couple of his own belongings. He was always set to run out the door without a glance back. Now he was stuck in a deplorably-decorated hotel room. Peter's had been a small reprieve. He doubted whether El would even let him in the door again, let alone stay a night.

Peter had called El shortly after the local PD arrived. He wanted her to stay with family for a couple of days, at least until... _For a guy that could run circles around most people, Peter stumbled when it came to telling El her home had been shot up, with him in it._ She hadn't been long in arriving, pushing past the local PD, demanding to see her husband, informing them bluntly that this was her home. When she got to Peter, she collapsed into his arms, tears streaming down her face. He tried to assure her the bullets were small, harmless. She'd pulled back and with one quick sweep assessed the damage with an unnerving accuracy. Peter could say nothing to reassure her the incident was minor. Her sweep of the room had stopped at Neal. There were no rocks in Peter's living room to climb under, but before El could say or do anything to Neal, Peter guided her upstairs. Neal had remained motionless and quiet until Jones guided him into the kitchen.

Peter had then retold Neal's story. Shortly after, Peter left with El, and Jones and Diana had taken Neal to set up the safe house.

Neal closed his eyes.

He ached.

Reminded once again of how quickly the few things he treasured could be yanked away.

He rolled onto his side, burying his head into the pillow, trying to ignore the sounds of the burger, fries and cola being consumed in the bed next to him. The company was his own doing: Peter had thoughtfully taken his concerns into consideration, hence his safe house came with a live-in roommate, aka FBI agent, along with the usual agent posted outside.

* * *

Monday morning brought everyone together at the White Collar conference room.

* * *

Neal just caught the object flying at him from the doorway; he deftly caught the fedora in his right hand. He turned his chair. Ruiz grinned at him as he strode into the conference room like he owned it.

"Was in the back of my car. Figured it was yours. Something to hide under."

"Enough," Peter barked as he entered the conference room.

Neal closed his mouth. Thankful. His night had been restless fits of sleep, so verbal sparring with Ruiz held little promise. He'd have sooner punched the S.O.B. in the mouth anyway. It was then that Neal noticed a slight bruising to Ruiz's jaw. Neal smirked at him. Ruiz scowled back.

"_Gentlemen_." Peter's sarcastic tone broke their staring contest.

He stood directly behind Neal, tapping the papers he held on the back of Neal's chair. Neal inwardly cringed at each tap.

"We have less than two weeks to pull everything we have on Zantele together."

Ruiz started to protest. Peter, however, continued without giving Ruiz the slightest amount of recognition. "Zantele's operations no longer encompass just the Eastern Seaboard; Diana discovered several international connections. A couple of overseas operatives have already confirmed possible ties to the Corsican mob. The chatter has increased steadily over the last month, more so in the last five days. Given what we have so far, it's a good probability the increase is due to Zantele's contact with and connection to Neal..."

"You miserable..." Ruiz was halfway out of his seat with a finger pointing accusingly at Neal.

"SIT. DOWN!" Peter snarled at Ruiz, while slamming the papers he held onto the table. "We don't have time for pissing contests or pointing fingers."

Ruiz slunk back down in his chair, still glaring at Neal.

Peter gripped the back of Neal's chair with both hands.

Causing Neal to suspect Peter was about to offer him up to the wolves.

Neal only had Peter's voice and the pressure of his hands on the chair to gauge his mood.

Peter held Neal's chair firmly.

Neal fought frantically to keep still.  
He couldn't spin or fidget or catch Peter's attention.  
He couldn't even raise his hand.  
He felt like a fly stuck in a web, frozen for fear the slightest movement would summon the spider.

"Neal..." Peter paused, scanning the faces in the room. "Neal is going to provide whatever information you request in regards to Zantele, his connection to Zantele and to a missing piece of fine art."

"That wouldn't have anything to do with the disappearance of one of our pieces?" A new voice questioned from the doorway.

Peter relinquished his grasp on Neal's chair.

"Bob, glad to have you." Peter extended his hand, then rested his hand on Bob's shoulder as he introduce him to everyone in the room.

"Special Agent Roberts is on loan to us from the Boston Art Crimes Unit. His specialty has become the Gardner Heist."

The mention of the Gardner brought everyone's attention back to Neal.

"I'll take those looks as both complements and insults. First, I would only have been—"

"Fourteen," Jones interjected. "Never too early to start."

"Appreciating art, not ripping it from frames," Neal chided.

"Neal didn't steal the Gardner Art." Peter quieted the buzz in the room. "A few stories are kicking around that he may have forged a couple of the paintings."

"Copied. Not forged."

"You're admitting—" Ruiz started.

"Neal's not admitting to anything." Peter repositioned himself behind Neal, both hands firmly resting on Neal's chair.

Neal relaxed slightly. Peter's stance seemed more protective than threatening. Peter wasn't holding him out to the wolves, rather he had his back, daring any takers to challenge his authority over Neal. Neal was to provide answers but Peter would allow no one to take him to task for those answers.

All the initial information on Zantele and the stolen painting required several hours of explanation from Neal, as well as Ruiz, Diana and Bob Roberts. Everyone then broke into groups to chase down prospective leads, re-evaluate, and organize their teams.

Peter had however held back one key piece, the recovery of the original painting. Any leak now that the original was in FBI custody might quickly collapse the whole operation.

Peter and Hughes had closed-door meetings with Roberts, then Ruiz, then the two spoke for a good forty minutes before summoning Neal into Hughes' office. Neal's skin bristled the moment the door swung shut. Peter stood for what seemed like forever with his palm pressed against the door, while Hughes directed Neal to sit down.

"Not on the couch, Caffrey." Hughes gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "I prefer that you stay awake while in my office."

Neal looked to Peter for any indication whether Hughes was serious or joking.

Peter only provided him with a mild shrug.

"How much trouble am I in?" Neal remained standing.

Hughes rocked his chair, suddenly stopping as he placed both hands firmly on the desk in front of him.

"I haven't decided yet." Hughes paused, eyes moving from the offered chair back to Neal.

Neal sat.

Peter propped himself against a side table. Arms folded. Expressionless.

Hughes continued, "Let's see. We've just recovered a 50 million dollar Rembrandt. The location of which you knew for over a year."

Neal felt a chill in the room.

"A painting we apparently can't return to the rightful owner because we need to turn it over to a syndicate boss, one Emile Zantele, with ties to the Corsican mob." Hughes' attention flicked to Peter. "Apparently, we have to do this to save your hide."

Neal felt the room turn cold.

"Apparently, because Zantele has threatened to kill you. Allegedly because you scammed his father out of the recovered painting. Personally, I'm partial to keeping the painting and turning you over to Zantele."

Neal noted the slight twitch of Peter's upper lip.

"However, Peter thinks we should keep you."

Neal felt the icy chill return as Hughes' stare threatened to cut through him.

"Caffrey, if anything happens to this painting we'll all be looking for new jobs. You'll be back in prison for certain ..." Hughes eyes darted to Peter. "...and you may just end up with company."

"Hopefully not," Peter countered.

"So, there is no way of doing this without the real painting?" Hughes leaned back in his chair, his attention focusing on Peter.

"Nope, Zantele will want to authenticate it. Plus the possession charges for the painting would be the icing on the cake."

"He'll want Caffrey to turn it over?"

"In all likelihood."

"So, how do we do that and recover both the painting and Caffrey?"

"By recover, you mean still breathing, right?"

Hughes ignored Neal's question. "Zantele's going to expect our involvement?"

"We'd have to figure on that. He's not likely to do anything until the painting is authenticated." Peter sighed. "But once the painting is authenticated ..."

"I'm expendable." Neal provided a flat statement of the all-too-obvious.

"Completely," Peter emphasized.

"So, back to how do we recover the painting without getting any blood on it?"

Peter handed a long mailing tube to Neal.

"Boston?"

"Yup, Agent Roberts brought it in for us."

Neal cleared most of Hughes' desk before Hughes could protest. He slipped the painting onto the desk and let it unroll on its own. Hughes let out an appreciative sigh.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? It's mine," Neal breathed, totally absorbed in the painting.

"I'm impressed. Peter, you have him admitting to offenses now."

"Copies aren't offenses; I never sold it or passed it off as real." Neal's gaze remained fixed on the painting. "Peter, how are we going to...?" Neal stopped short and carefully flipped the painting over. He adjusted a light on the desk and pressed his face close to the painting. He looked across the back of the painting, moving up and then slowly back down.

"Neal."

Neal crouched down so he looked across the plane of the painting, his eyes darting from side to side.

"Neal!"

Neal stood, glancing from Peter to Hughes and back to Peter. "It's been tagged."

"Tagged?"

"Oh, come on, Peter, what side game is the FBI playing here?"


	13. Questions

**13 QUESTIONS**

Previously: Everyone is at the FBI working at pulling all the info on Zantele together. Special Agent Bob Roberts has come on board from Boston's Art Crimes Unit to assist. Peter has just given the copy of Rembrandt's "Storm" from Boston to Neal.

* * *

Peter latched onto Neal and marched him out of Hughes' office before he pushed Hughes to the edge of his _Caffrey tolerance _with any other accusations. He shoved him into his office, plunked him into a chair and waved a warning finger in his face.

Neal managed to open his mouth but Peter had already returned to Hughes' office.

"What the hell was that about?" Hughes' voice bellowed out.

Neal couldn't hear Peter, which was surprising as the entire floor had become remarkably quiet. He knew many eyes were once again fixed on him. Glass walls didn't just let light in. The last thing he wanted to do was turn around to meet any of the faces watching him. So, he checked his hands for the first five minutes, Peter's rubber-band ball the next five. Then rearranged every item on Peter's desk until settling on joining all of Peter's paperclips into a chain.

Peter finally returned, grabbing the paperclip chain up on his entry and dumping it into his top drawer.

"I wasn't finished," Neal blandly protested.

"Buddy boy, you'll be finished if you keep pushing the envelope with Hughes."

"But the painting is tagged," Neal half pouted.

"It may well be, but that doesn't give you the right to call Hughes on it." Peter placed the long tube with the painting in it against his desk. He paced, trying to refocus his thoughts.

Neal moved the last few paperclips around and around, until Peter slammed his hand down on Neal's.

Neal flinched, wide eyes blinking up at Peter.

"Damn it, Neal, we need Hughes' support on this." Peter caught his breath. "We certainly don't need any extra hassles either."

"Then why tag the painting?"

"I didn't. We didn't. You know damn well it's been hanging in the Boston Art Crimes Unit; _you_ sent it there."

Neal dropped his eyes.

Peter stepped out of the office and beckoned to Agent Roberts.

Roberts was a large man, 6'4", 230 plus, with a deep resonating voice; despite his stature he came across as warm and inviting. Fit too, as he took the stairs two at a time without the slightest effort.

"Thanks again for coming, Bob."

"I'm pleased to be here." He looked down at Neal. "I'm hoping to get Mr. Caffrey one-on-one if I can?"

"Ohhh, Neal will be more than happy to speak with you. Won't you, Neal?"

Neal stood, his charismatic smile and proffered hand belying his complete dislike for _'speaking'_ to anyone.

"First, I have a question for you, though, Bob." Peter motioned to the tube holding the painting.

"I'm all yours, Peter; fire away."

"Did you know the painting was tagged?"

"What?"

"Tagged. Like with an isotope or—" Neal's snarkiness was met with a sharp glare from Peter. He quickly found his chair and folded his arms in resignation.

"I do know what a tag is, Mr. Caffrey, I just wasn't aware this painting was tagged. Nor do I know when or who tagged it. It was an anonymous donation to the unit several years ago. I can make some calls if you'd like."

Peter nodded.

"It's very well done," Roberts mused. Then, "I understand you're very good with forgeries, Mr. Caffrey."

"Allegedly." Peter quickly cut Neal off.

"Yes, of course, allegedly. No disrespect, Mr. Caffrey, curiosity just got the cat."

"It killed the cat." Neal couldn't let Agent Roberts' comments go.

"Go find Jones." Peter pointed Neal to the door.

"Sorry, Bob, Neal's annoying but rarely rude."

"My bad. I'd be intolerant too if my life was on the line. I'll go make those calls."

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Peter?" Jones poked his head around the door.

"Yeah, I need you to keep a close eye on Neal."

"Sure thing; Caffrey-sitting has become my forte."

"You're a good man, Jones."

"It's all pensionable, right?"

"Yup, but you're likely to get gray, or worse, a lot quicker with Neal." Peter hesitated. "Clinton, this could get nasty fast; don't let your guard down."

Jones smiled, a deep understanding smile. "Thanks, Peter."

"I'm not sure if you'll be thanking me when this is done."

"Maybe, but I'll buy the beer anyway."

"What are you two chuckling about?" Neal asked as he stepped back into Peter's office. Neal caught Jones' look. "Oh come on, Jones doesn't have to be my shadow again?"

"_Again_ being the operative word. And he's not your shadow—when you're not with me you're to listen to his direction. Understood?"

Neal knew better than to argue: Peter's jaw was firmly set.

"And Neal..." Peter paused for emphasis. "The correct terminology is _'Caffrey-sitting'."_

"And I'm putting my life in your hands," Neal mocked, rolling his eyes skyward.

"Yup."

Peter waved at Diana to come up.

"Neal grab the forgery, copy, and explain your concerns with the tagging. We can use the conference room."

Neal went over the tagging. He could have switched the original for the copy. It was a near perfect match: even the rips and cuts were painstakingly copied; it literally could have been slipped back into its original frame with none the wiser. Only by an expert, and then likely only with numerous tests, would any doubt be cast on the copy. With the tagging, the right test or equipment would quickly set off red alerts for anyone authenticating the painting. Worse still, you didn't have to be an expert to run the equipment over the painting.

"I still don't get how you recognized the tagging?" Jones queried.

"It's my painting." When he realized this still made no sense to Jones, Neal started to explain.

"Mmmh, it's like knowing every inch of a woman," Diana interrupted.

"Wawhat?" Jones stammered.

"It's okay, Jones." Peter put his hand on Jones' shoulder. "I'm assuming from Neal's distracted expression that Diana's correct."

"She is. I know every speck of that canvas, front and back. It's like embroidery, too; the back is supposed to be as good as the front, so you can't tell which is the right side. With a forgery ..." Neal whistled air in. "... umm, copy, the canvas itself is just as important as the paint you work on the front. There are flaws, smudges, wear on the back that I replicated with as much detail as anything on the face."

"I guess that _would be important_ for a copy you're not passing off as real," Jones teased.

Neal shrugged, his enigmatic smile encompassing them all. "You can't hold me accountable for being a perfectionist."

"Don't worry, Neal," Peter countered. "We'll find something to hold you accountable for, I'm sure."

Jones and Diana both snickered. Neal scoffed.

"Keep working," Peter directed. "I'm going to see about getting lunch ordered in for everyone."

"No deviled ham!" Neal, Diana and Jones chimed in unison, then giggled like schoolchildren.

As Peter entered his office he could hear Diana still digging at Neal, "Embroidery? Honestly? I thought a woman was much more romantic. Do you do a lot of embroidery?" Laughter followed. Peter smiled, contented. He enjoyed his team—bright, intelligent, caring and good-humored—they made the job bearable through good and bad days.

* * *

Everyone kept working late into the afternoon; even Ruiz had kept his team going, which was remarkable as they were wading through several months' worth of surveillance tapes looking for new leads. Diana had continued with her international connections, while Jones sorted and pulled everything together for Peter and Hughes to review. Neal had spoken with several contacts until Agent Roberts had grabbed onto him for some _"one-on-one"_. All-in-all things were coming together fairly quickly, mostly, Peter had to admit, because of Ruiz's work and Neal's willingness to provide answers. Peter would have enjoyed to have oh so many more answers but he wasn't about to push right now; unlocking Neal's _'Pandora's Box'_ in the middle of a sensitive operation was far from wise.

Neal pressed up against the doorway, interrupting Peter's musings. "Peter."

"Yeah, Neal."

"Did you bring Roberts in?"

"I called him. What's up?"

"You asked him to come here?"

"Actually he offered. They haven't had many leads of late on the Gardner, even with the 20-year anniversary ads."

"You asked him to bring my painting?"

"I did. What's going on in that head of yours, Neal?"

Neal shrugged.

"Oh, no. No, no. You don't get to ask questions like that then give me a shrug. Close the door and spill it."

Neal sat, then stood and moved his chair to the side of Peter's desk. He leaned forward on the edge of the chair, Peter patiently watching him. Then he leaned back, studying Peter.

"You done?"

Neal leaned forward. "Do you trust him?"

"You don't? Never mind, dumb question."

"How well do you know him?"

"We've met on several lectures, even a couple of art theft courses."

"Did he find anything about the painting being tagged?"

"No. It's been hanging on the wall undisturbed since it arrived."

"Figures."

"Fill me in, Neal. Now."

"He asked me a lot of questions about my painting. Not so much about Zantele."

"That surprises you? Your painting is a near-perfect copy of the _'Storm'_; who wouldn't be curious? Imagine being one of the lead investigators for the Gardner Theft and someone shows interest in a copy hanging on your wall."

"You're right, of course, Peter." Neal leaned back in his chair.

"Right. You're not the least bit satisfied with that answer, are you?"

"He never asked about my, um, ah ..."

"... partner in crime."

Neal grimaced. "Yeah."

"Same word, different intent. Why would that bother you?"

Neal's bright eyes narrowed, a rather wounded expression crossing his face. Peter's hand fell onto his knee.

"Neal, our _partnership_ is safe. I meant, why would Bob not asking about your associate bother you?"

Neal sighed. "I don't know. He focused everything on my painting. He asked about the one here too."

Peter perked up. "What did you tell him?"

"That I'm usually not too welcomed at the Arts Crime Unit, and I'm not allowed to play with their artwork."

Peter shook his head.

"Well, it's the truth. Except for Adeline—she never kicks me out."

"Figures it would be a woman." Peter grinned.

"She's a year away from her pension." Neal admonished. "I don't know why they would want to let someone with her knowledge go. She's the only one who ever paid any attention to the Rembrandt. We discussed it several times. I kept pointing out the subtle problems with it. I was never sure she was convinced. I think she had the romantic notion that it was the real one but couldn't reconcile it with hanging on an FBI wall."

Peter was out the door before Neal finished his last sentence.

"Peter?" Neal was behind him.

"We need to find Adeline."

"I don't understand."

"The Art Crimes Unit is already involved with this but I don't need any speculation going beyond rumor. And we certainly don't need anyone suggesting we might have the real painting." Peter spoke in a hushed tense voice.

* * *

Adeline was still in her office; she provided Neal with a warm hug on his entry. Then immediately demanded to know what he had done with her Rembrandt. Neal stepped back behind Peter. Peter explained. Adeline nodded. She then advised them that Agent Roberts had already been down to speak about the painting. She had assured him the painting was a copy, a twin to the one in Boston. He had seemed a little distracted, nothing more.

* * *

Peter found Roberts with Diana, reviewing recent calls Zantele had received from overseas. He seemed perplexed by Peter's concerns about his questions to Neal. He had hoped Neal might provide leads to who had all the Gardner artwork. He didn't want to overwhelm Neal, though, with too many questions at once. So, he decided to satisfy his curiosity about the painting here but no one seemed to know where it had gone. Peter confirmed that they had it secured in the faint hope that it may help with Neal's situation. Peter had then directed his attention back to Neal.

"You satisfied now?" Peter sounded testy, if not tired.

"I guess."

Peter sighed, a long frustrated sigh. "Go find Jones. It's time to wrap everything up for today."

Neal groaned, "Safe house."

"Live with it."

O O O

* * *

P.S. The embroidery thing is a shoutout to Kiki Cabou and "Titan of Industry". I laughed so hard reading this story. I will never be able to pick up a knitted hat ever again without thinking about Kiki and this hilarious take on Neal.


	14. Paperwork

**14 PAPERWORK**

Previously: Everyone has been focused on pulling information on Zantele and his operation together. Neal doesn't like Agent Bob Roberts. Time for plans, plots and cons to come together. Maybe.

O O O

* * *

Everyone had worked through the week on what had been dubbed Operation Zorm. Neal and Jones carried on with the comic book aspect of the name, until they had exhausted themselves, with Jones having to wipe the tears from his eyes. Neal certainly needed the humor. Peter repeatedly had to jostle him from some aloof place his thoughts had taken him. To top it off Neal had griped every day about being lodged in a safe house. Peter explained again and again that he wasn't about to let Zantele get his hands on him again. He wasn't sure what Zantele knew nor who he may be connected to. Peter believed there was more to this whole thing with Neal than just the painting. However with the weekend approaching Neal was nearly beside himself with having to spend three nights there, let alone two whole days with no company but assigned agents.

Neal walked alongside Peter pitching every imaginable scenario. Pleading. Begging. Peter was certain Neal would soon throw himself on the floor, prone in supplication. Peter finally capitulated, agreeing to an exhibit, the park and Sunday brunch.

An uneventful weekend came and went.

Peter picked Neal up Monday morning with an offer of breakfast and fresh-brewed coffee. Jones and Diana met them at the cafe that was all of a block from the office. The conversation was light and fairly subdued, partly because Neal seemed preoccupied with yawning his way through his scrambled eggs on toast.

"No sleep?" Diana asked.

A fork moved a piece of egg to the right.

"Neal," Peter called.

The same fork moved the same piece of egg to the left.

"Neal." Jones nudged Neal's elbow.

The egg disappeared over the edge of the plate.

Neal scowled. He scooped the wayward egg up and tipped it onto a side plate before raising his gaze to meet three sets of eyes intently watching him.

"What?"

Jones and Diana snickered.

Peter shook his head and finished his coffee. "Come on, time to go."

Neal seemed surprised. "I haven't finished."

"Oh?" Peter raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, you wanted us to spend the rest of the morning watching you yawn and rearrange the eggs on your plate."

"I'm hungry. And I don't sleep well with a large FBI agent snoring 5 feet away from me."

Diana and Jones couldn't help it—they chuckled and snickered their way into the office.

"Peter, I didn't mean for you to get take-out for me."

"It's not." Peter stopped to face Neal; he passed the bagged box to Neal. "It's a doggie bag."

Neal snatched the bag and plunked it onto his desk. His first urge had been to deposit it directly into the garbage. However, being tired he wasn't exactly sure where Peter's mood sat this morning and he didn't feel like tempting fate.

Monday became a day of meetings, then paperwork.

So much paperwork.

Ruiz's team had finished reviewing the surveillance and provided Peter with some interesting updates.

Diana had received more info from overseas. Zantele's operations had expanded to include smuggling but they weren't sure they could pull enough together for any charges in that area.

Jones pulled everything together.  
Search warrants were drafted for several locations.  
Arrest warrants were drafted for numerous individuals.

They would have more than enough to indict Zantele.

Monday came and went. The paperwork didn't.

Now the dance with prosecutors and judges began. Days of rushing to pull information and evidence together seemed to slow into an agonizing lull as they waited for drafts of warrants to become signed legal documents.

No one could escape paperwork.

Neal tried an exhausting number of excuses to avoid the FBI's insistence on paperwork. Bad enough he had to complete reports, but waiting, waiting, _w a i t i n g_ for some legal documents, so you could do what everyone knew was right, bordered on torture. Coupled with his growing apprehension with having any contact with Zantele, Neal had steadily gone from annoying to frustrating to distracting.

Peter lost his temper with him twice, barking at him to sit down as not everything revolved around him.

On the second occasion, Neal, despondent, retreated to his desk, crossed his arms and stared into space. After more than two hours, Peter yanked him out of his seat and disappeared down the corridor with him. Peter sat him in one of the interview rooms. Neal figured he'd be getting a lecture; instead Peter left him there for over an hour. Neal was moodier than ever on Peter's return.

"You going to get through this?" Peter asked him quietly.

Neal shot Peter an icy blue glance, then returned to staring blankly at the table.

"Neal." Soft, almost lilting.

Neal closed his eyes. "You gave me a time-out."

"Is that what you want to think?"

"What was it then?"

"A moment to yourself. No one watching you. No one asking questions, telling you what to do."

"You think an _interview room_ is going to give me a moment's solace?" Neal retorted.

"I never ..."

"... thought? Maybe you should've handcuffed me to the table? Make me feel at home?" Neal held his hands up, wrists together. "You know, for old times..."

_He could flick a cuff around that extended wrist so easily, latch the other cuff to the table, the rest of the day would be..._

Neal had caught Peter's wistful look. "You thought about it!"

"Didn't."

"Did."

"Did."

"Di..."

"I've considered duct taping you to your desk too. Too many witnesses though."

"More like the witnesses would be helping."

"True."

"I wasn't trying to annoy anyone, or you."

"I know."

Neal closed his eyes again and let out a soft sigh.

"You scared?"

"Should I be?"

"Can't imagine why—a syndicate boss grabs you, beats the crap out of you and demands his stolen painting in two weeks—nope, no reason to be scared. Worried, concerned maybe?"

"Sarcasm will get you everywhere."

"Neal, I'm here if you want to talk."

"I know."

Neal knew the door was open; occasionally he'd step in, have a seat, divulge something that begged more questions, then exit stage left.

"How'd everything go with Mozzie?"

"He's upset. Thinks I'm wasting some of my best work."

"Does he, now?"

"What can I say?"

"Narcissist."

"Being honest."

"What was the quote?"

"_'__Do not imagine you can exorcise what oppresses you in life by giving vent to it in art'_."

"Ever the pessimist. How about this instead, _'Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life'_."

"You're quoting me Picasso."

"Better than Flaubert."

"Fine, I'll raise you a Nietzsche, _'Art approaches as a saving sorceress, expert at healing. She alone knows how to turn these nauseous thoughts about the horror and absurdity of existence into notions with which one can live'._"

Peter tilted his head, a soft wry smile crossing his face. "You win."

Neal beamed, a perfectly joyous Caffrey smile complete with sparkling blue eyes. "What do I win?"

"Ummm, I had been planning on saving you from the safe house but now I'm not—"

Neal gaped. "June's?"

"No."

Neal narrowed his eyes, "You mean no as in_ no_ or no as in _no June's_."

Peter paused. "No June's."

"Then where? You squeezed blood from the FBI stone to get a nicer hotel?"

"Nope."

"Mozzie would consider this an abuse of _suit_ authority."

"You did not just say _'suit authori__ty'_?"

"I'm desperate."

"Okay, El has invited you for dinner."

Wide blue eyes met Peter's. "Seriously? Elizabeth is going to let me back in her home?"

"She enjoyed the park and Sunday brunch."

Neal's eyes twinkled.

"Apparently, we're going to be doing more brunches and the park. Oh, don't you even think it. _We_,as in me and El."

"Peter, I'm hurt."

Neal didn't need a second _'try me'_ look and quickly turned back to the paperwork Peter had brought in.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the interview room going over details and running scenarios. Gaps existed in some of their intel, which opened the door to several different outcomes, some with undesirable, if not deadly, results. Tomorrow would set one of those scenarios irrevocably in motion.

Finally, Peter ushered them out.

Neal bounced with excitement. Days of boxed dinners and two FBI chaperones for company would leave anyone starved for normalcy, if anything in Neal Caffrey's life could remotely be called normal.

A home-cooked meal always goes down well. When accompanied by friends, laughter and good conversation the taste can be savored for years.

Neal polished off a bottle of mâconnais, Saint-Véran, with El.  
Peter stuck to his beer and deftly steered the conversation away from work.  
By ten-thirty Neal was splayed out on the Burkes' couch sound asleep.

El tapped Peter's arm and gestured to Neal.

"You're not waking him, are you." It wasn't a question.

"No." Peter sighed.

Peter quietly slipped out the house to give Neal's two 'safe house' agents, parked out front, the news as to where they'd be spending the night. The two over stuffed lunch bags with gourmet coffee and the heavenly smell of still warm Mochaccino cake, courtesy El, helped to soften their new assignment of watching the Burke house for the night.

Wednesday arrived.

Neal sat bolt upright with his fist pulled back.

"Easy. Easy," Peter cautioned, his hands open protectively.

"Whoa." Neal blinked, disoriented. "I'm on your couch."

"Aren't you observant first thing in the morning. Coffee's on; grab one, then we'll run by June's."

Two hours later they stood in front of Emile Zantele's Zazze Club.

* * *

O O O


	15. Actions

**15 EXPORTS**

Previously: Wednesday. Twelve days since Neal's introduction to Emile Zantele. Peter and Neal are now standing in front of Zantele's Zazze Club.

O O O

* * *

Neal wasn't sure how he expected the front of the Zazze Club to appear. Only a small nickel-plated sign to the right of the door announced the entry for the Zazze Club. The bright red door matched the rear door in every aspect, save for the narrow curved glass strip down the length of the door and the nickel-plated hardware. The rest of the building consisted of the same nondescript brick as the alleyway Neal had unceremoniously been dragged to by Maury Trenton less than two weeks ago. A red dome awning sat sedately above the entry with a plastic-encased security camera mounted inconspicuously under it.

Despite the warmth of the day Neal shivered.

"You ready for this?"

"Always ready."

"You sure?"

"I said yes."

Peter gave Neal a long look. "All right."

Peter grabbed onto Neal's arm and half rammed him through the entrance of the Zazze Club. Neal nearly collided with Maury Trenton on entry and tried to retreat behind Peter. Peter held him firmly. He knew Trenton had no doubt been monitoring their entry.

"Maury Trenton."

"Can I help you?"

"You already know Mr. Caffrey." Peter flashed his badge. "Now you can introduce me to Mr. Zantele."

_Breathe, breathe, breathe_. Neal let out a whisper of a breath as the walls of Zantele's opulent office pressed in around him. He stood back from Peter and tried to keep as much distance between himself and Trenton as possible.

Zantele sat like a crown prince behind his grand carved desk. His eyes wandered up and down Peter in quiet speculation. He gave Neal a self-righteous smile.

"Agent Burke, what can I do for you?"

"You can take that smug look off your face, Zantele."

"Excuse me?" Zantele shot a quick glance at Trenton.

"The FBI is well aware of your _business_ activities, Mr. Zantele. We're also aware of your meeting with Caffrey." Peter ran the fingers of his left hand along Zantele's desk. Then rubbed the tips together like he had found dirt there. "Unfortunately, you and your _little_ organization have been under surveillance for some time."

Zantele bristled at the word 'little'. "My _legal_ business is hardly_ little_, Agent Burke, nor do I like your allegation that I would associate with a con man and felon."

"Well, like father, like son. You both _associated_ with Caffrey. He was arrested shortly after associating with your father. Likewise, he was arrested shortly after meeting with you. You didn't know about the first arrest, did you? Or the second? You do already know that I was one of the agents involved in your father's indictment."

"And death." Zantele's icy voice cut into the already tense air.

"If that's how you see it."

"I do."

"Anyway, it didn't take too long to figure what you wanted Caffrey for."

"Assuming I wanted anything with him."

"I did assume. Six years ago, we had a tip about Caffrey and your father. I ended up with a forged painting and nothing to hold Caffrey on. We did however have other criminal activities to indict your father on. And here we are again: Caffrey, a recovered painting—the real one, and lots of other criminal activities to indict you on."

"You had nothing then and you have nothing now!" Zantele's voice rose in anger.

Zantele stood. "I think it's time you left, Agent Burke."

Peter flipped a set of folded legal papers on Zantele's desk.

"Afraid not."

On cue, the FBI tactical team entered Zantele's office, followed by Jones, Ruiz and Michaels.

Trenton quickly put his hands up. He was cuffed, disarmed and ushered out by two tactical team members and Michaels.

"Agent Ruiz." Zantele sneered. "Couldn't figure out how to indict me without Agent Burke? How long has it been? Three years?"

"Two and a half," Ruiz shot back as he slapped a cuff onto Zantele's right hand. "And unlike Agent Burke's speculation about you and Caffrey, I have a solid two years of dirt on you." Ruiz jerked Zantele's left hand behind his back and cuffed it to the right.

"You have nothing. I'll be out before the end of the day," Zantele scoffed.

"We'll see about that," Peter chided. Then he turned to Jones and thumbed towards Neal.

"You can take him too."

Neal stepped back, shock registering on his face. Jones was beside him, cuffs out.

"Peter, don't." Neal shook his head.

"What did you think, we wouldn't find out?"

Neal dropped his eyes, abashed.

"Too much of a temptation for you?"

Neal swallowed.

"I still haven't figured how you located where Agent Berrigan secured the painting."

"How...?"

"How? How did I know Rembrandt's original _'Storm'_, that you turned over, was switched out?" Peter paused, glancing between Neal and Zantele. "It was already damaged, so I added a new very small _'flaw'_. The new damage was worth protecting the original from any new switch."

"I wasn't..."

"You weren't what?" Peter sidled towards Neal. "You weren't going to run with it? Or you weren't going to Zantele with it?" Peter pressed close to Neal, anger radiating from him. "Neal, it didn't take much once we realized who Zantele's father was to figure out why Zantele met with you."

"I'm at a loss, Agent Burke," Zantele interrupted. Peter glared at him, but he continued. "Are you suggesting a known felon, under your supervision, stole something of value from the FBI, and because he had a few drinks in my club, whenever, that _I'm_ somehow responsible?"

"No, I'm implying that _you_ orchestrated everything long before meeting with Caffrey."

"You have a vivid imagination, Burke." Zantele tipped his head back and addressed Ruiz. "Agent Ruiz, I have to apologize to you. I thought you were slow but Burke beats you hands down."

Ruiz grappled Zantele by the shoulder and yanked him toward the door. Zantele pulled to a stop at the door, glaring at Neal, who fought to steady each breath.

"We're not done," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Move," Ruiz barked, while pushing him through the door.

"Keep them apart," Peter growled.

* * *

Peter's voice echoed through the White Collar office.

He ranted and raved.  
He paced back and forth in the conference room.  
His arms waved and gestured, until he finally thumped his hands onto the table and glowered at Neal.

"Talk to me," Peter implored, "Please, talk to me."

Neal had been staring intently at the metal encircling both wrists.

Peter's last words brought him out of his thoughts.

He blinked at Peter.

"Are we done?"

Peter threw his hands up in the air. He strode to the door and yanked it open.

"JONES!"

Jones bounded up the stairs.

Eyes followed.

Many eyes that cautiously cast glances towards the conference room.

"Get Diana!" Peter paused, bringing his raised voice in check. "Get Diana, put Caffrey in an interview room and get him processed." Peter's voice rose again. "DON'T! Don't, under any circumstances, let him out of your sight."

Peter sighed and headed to Hughes' office.

Jones watched; he shook his head, then quietly gathered Neal up. He could just hear Hughes' voice booming through the office as he headed down the corridor to the interview room.

The White Collar office was privy only to Hughes' side of the _'conversation'_ with Peter.

"NOT TALKING! What do you mean NOT TALKING! ...

"... I'll show CAFFREY what a STORM AT SEA will look like if he doesn't hand that painting over ...

"... How are we supposed to write this one up! ...

"... They don't have forms that would remotely cover this! ...

"...HE'S DONE, Burke! PERIOD! Painting or not!"

Peter slunk out of Hughes' office. He stopped, caught his breath, grabbed a file from his office and headed to the interview room. The walk through the bullpen was agonizingly long. He kept his head up but met no one's eyes, mostly due to everyone having already averted their eyes.

Jones leaned against the far wall of the interview room, arms crossed, patiently watching Neal.

Neal who still seemed fixated with the cuffs on his wrist.

Neal who was uncharacteristically silent.

Jones pushed away from the wall and stepped towards Peter as he entered the interview room.

"Diana's gone to complete the paperwork. Probably be a good couple of hours for everything to get completed and notify the Marshals. Do we have to—" Jones stopped as he caught Peter's admonishing glare. "He's done, isn't he? I'm sorry, Peter."

"Not your fault, Jones. He did it to himself."

"_He's_ in the room."

Jones and Peter both gawked at Neal.

"You. You can keep your mouth shut, unless you're telling us where you have the painting."

"What painting?"

Peter slammed the file he held onto the table.

"This isn't a game, Neal. You're going back to prison."

Neal tilted his head quizzically, "Exactly how is that supposed to compel me to divulge where I _allegedly_ have a painting? Really, Peter, I thought your interviewing techniques were of a higher caliber."

Jones stepped closer to Neal. He knew Peter's tolerance exceeded most but wasn't about to let a surly-mouthed con man drag Peter down. Well, at least not any further down than he had already been dragged.

Peter stood motionless; except for the huff of breath and intent glower at Neal, he could easily have been stone.

"Peter. PETER!"

Peter broke his fixed stare and turned to Jones.

"Peter, I'll look after the rest of the interview, okay. He's not worth it, Peter. Please."

"Fine," Peter finally muttered.

Peter held the door handle.

"I can't... I just... I just can't believe you'd do this."

No response.

Neal once again had fixed his attention on the cuffs around his wrist.

Only when the door slammed shut did Neal look up.

He turned to Jones, shrugged and went back to the cuffs.

Two hours later Jones was no further ahead.  
Neal had looked up once to ask for a glass of water.  
Jones' frustration level steadily increased with each passing minute.  
He seriously wondered how Peter had tolerated Neal for so long.

Diana showed up with the paperwork for Neal.

She too accomplished little more with Neal than him moving his gaze from the handcuffs to the file jacket with his paperwork.

Peter returned late in the afternoon.

His comment immediately brought Neal's head snapping up.

"Zantele's made bail."

"Already." Diana shook her head.

"Trenton and a couple of others walked too."

"I thought we froze all his assets?" Jones queried.

"Legal assets. I'm sure he had reserves in place."

"Of course." Jones shot Neal a dirty look.

Neal shrugged.

"Jones, I need to run something by you, then we can get the Marshals here. Diana, you good with Caffrey?"

"I haven't shot him yet." Diana smirked.

Jones held his breath for much of the quiet, confidential conversation with Peter. He nodded his head only slightly to reassure Peter he understood. When they were done Peter tapped his shoulder.

"Thanks," Peter whispered.

"Always," Jones replied.

When they returned to the interview room, they did so with the Marshals.

The two Marshals went through the paperwork. Peter signed at each point they indicated. They gave Jones his cuffs back and frisked Neal from head to toe before placing him in handcuffs and leg irons. Neal was warned that if he even looked sideways at his cuffs they'd taser him. For the first time that day the gravity of the situation fell on Neal. He closed his eyes, tilted his head up, shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to remove some offending bug. He then composed himself into a well-groomed, well-bred, none-of-this-bothers-me confidence man. The Marshals couldn't care less.

Peter grabbed Jones' arm.

"Go with the Marshals; make sure he gets away okay." Peter nodded ever so slightly at Jones.

Neal twisted back towards Peter and Diana. The Marshals yanked him back around and escorted him down the corridor towards the elevators.


	16. Elevators

**16 ELEVATORS**

Previously: The FBI closed in on Zantele with enough info to indict him. He was arrested with Trenton. So too was Neal. The real painting of Rembrandt's 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee' had been switched out, again, and Neal is being held accountable (or is he?). Zantele and Trenton both made bail. Neal however is being escorted back to prison by the Marshals.

O O O

* * *

Neal smiled at Jones. His eyes had been flicking between the two Marshals. Height, weight, build, age, fitness, clothing (_good indicator of job dedication_). The elevator provided other opportunities besides gathering info on his escorts, opportunities expanded by a longer-than-typical ride. It wasn't until the fifth time the doors slid open to an empty floor that Jones was certain Neal was responsible for those stops. Jones rolled his eyes at Neal, whose smile broadened even more.

Even shackled, Neal's gift for lifting all manner of things hardly seemed affected. The addition of a couple of extra people in the elevator for the last few floors allowed Neal to jostle between the two Marshals. Enough so that by the time the doors slid open again, the leg irons were no longer attached. At least not to Neal. Nor were the handcuffs. Handcuffs that Neal couldn't resist holding up to taunt the two Marshals with as he bounded off the elevator. The Marshals, as expected, immediately lunged for Neal, at the same time Jones stepped forward. The actions provided for a "Keystone" effect.

The doors to the elevator had started to slide shut in the already-confined space. With the leg irons hooked between the belt loops of the two Marshals, neither was prepared for their entry into a race after Caffrey. Nor were they prepared to suddenly have Jones step between them. The larger of the two Marshals managed to shove a shoulder into the narrowing space of the closing doorway. This served to tangle Jones further with the two. He held onto the other man to keep his balance. By the time the three managed to exit the elevator, the frustration level of both Marshals increased significantly as each realized that Caffrey had not only slipped his restraints but flipped the batteries loose in their radios and taser, as well as removing their keys and phones.

_Sometimes Neal followed directions implicitly—not once had he looked sideways at his cuffs. Duh! If he'd looked it would have given it all away. A moment's distraction was provided each time the elevator doors slid open. He had slipped the handcuffs by the time they'd passed the first three floors. Then he'd nimbly brought each leg up. The chain between the leg irons was long enough for walking and just long enough to allow him to reach the cuff around each ankle and engage the lock mechanism. Made all the easier as he'd already lifted the key for them. The hard part was getting one ankle cuff hooked onto each of the Marshals' belt loops. He'd never have done it except for the elevator being occupied by several other people for the last few floors. Some opportunities Neal could help along, others just presented themselves._

Neal disappeared down the corridor, down the stairs and into the secured parking garage. Neal had also lifted Jones' access card when they first stepped into the elevator. He needed it to get out of the garage without going through security. A press of the key fob gave him the Marshals' vehicle and a quick exit from the FBI building.

Neal ditched the Marshals' vehicle within blocks of the FBI. He'd found a parking spot on a main street, far better than an alley or side street._ Nothing like in plain view for hiding something._

Within an hour Neal had hitched numerous buses across the city to his specified meeting point. He now sat in a small coffee shop watching, waiting, disappearing into the background.

An extended black SUV slowed in front of the coffee shop. Neal hustled into it before anyone in the shop even noticed his departure. Neal was immediately met with a fist in his gut. He doubled over, coughing.

"Was that necessary?" he muttered at Maury Trenton.

Trenton shrugged. Then shoved Neal between himself and Emile Zantele.

Neal righted himself, smoothing his pant legs out and straightening his tie.

"I wasn't sure if you'd show." He glanced sideways at Zantele.

"You still have something of mine, Mr. Caffrey."

"I do."

"Check him." Zantele nodded to Trenton

Neal lifted his arms up while Trenton frisked him. Trenton dumped his cell phone and battery back into his pocket: he'd already disabled it in anticipation, hoping that they'd leave it on him. Then Trenton ran a small electronic sweeper close to his body.

Trenton shook his head no. "No electronics. No tracker."

"Oh, yeah, the tracker. It stopped working, didn't it?"

"Excuse me?" Zantele seemed perplexed by Neal's sudden unexpected question.

"It stopped working. The bug you placed in the tracker. That's how you knew certain private details, how you kept tabs on me. It stopped working. That's why you had Trenton cut it, so the Marshals would have to provide a new one, one of your bugged ones."

"Well now, aren't you the smart con man, or is that consultant, or perhaps still convict? I can never tell."

Neal provided no response.

"Not that it mattered; I'd already obtained what I wanted."

"But not daddy's precious painting." Neal scoffed.

Trenton's elbow slammed sharply into his solar plexus, leaving Neal fighting for air. As he raised his head back up, Trenton's elbow connected with his chin, snapping his jaw shut. Neal flinched, moving his right hand defensively in front of his face as Trenton readied for another strike.

"Shit! Come on," Neal entreated through gritted teeth.

"Enough," Zantele clipped.

Trenton snorted and slowly set his hand back on his knee.

Neal cautiously eyed Trenton as he regained his composure, blinking the pain back. He exhaled a shaky breath, then turned his attention to Zantele, who held up a small scrap of canvas between his index and middle fingers.

"Want to tell me about this?"

Neal narrowed his eyes. "I slipped it into your pocket at your office; I thought it was obvious."

"Obvious that it's an old piece of canvas with some paint on it."

"Test it. It's good."

"I'm sure, but how will it prove you have Rembrandt's painting?"

Neal turned in his seat to face Zantele.

He spoke softly, intently. " 'cause I took it from the 'Storm' myself. When I deliver the painting, all your expert will have to do is match your piece to the painting under high magnification. You'll find it meshes perfectly with the top left-hand corner."

Zantele contemplated Neal for an uncomfortably-long time.

"All right," he finally agreed.

"Good. What about the documents?"

"Your demands on the piece of paper folded around the canvas provided for some interesting reflection on my part, Mr. Caffrey. I had heard you leave far more complicated Origami work than little boats, although a boat is apropos."

"Documents. Yes?"

Zantele flipped the passport and visa into Neal's lap.

Neal flipped them open. "Not bad on short notice. Photoshop is sweet for cropping security photos, isn't it?"

Zantele shot him a dirty look. "My painting?"

"Safe for now. What about the rest?"

"All in due time." Zantele handed Neal a business card with a time and phone number on the back. "Place. Time. Call the number."

Neal nodded as Trenton opened the door for him.

"Oh, and Mr. Caffrey, if you're a no show, I will find you, and our first meeting will pale in comparison to the next."

Neal braced himself with the vehicle door. He locked eyes with Zantele. '_The only fear is fear itself, the only fear is ...' Okay, he was experiencing outright fear and no quote would quell that fear. Redirect. Redirect, so the nerves go unnoticed._

"Tell me something, Zantele, why'd you shoot up Burke's house?"

Zantele humphed, "Why not? He's as responsible as you for my father's death. No harm in upping the ante a bit. Hadn't expected him to hole you up in a safe house, but you know what they say, _'Good things come to him who waits.'_ Good day, Mr. Caffrey."

The SUV was already in motion as Neal exited. He stood watching as it disappeared into the late evening traffic. The street lights flickered into existence on the far side of the street. Neal turned to face westward. A string of deep orange clouds fading into crimson lit the horizon. The sun's rays were no longer strong enough to cast any warmth but their soft glow still touched Neal's face. He smiled, then winced. He dragged a thumb across his jaw, his tongue ran across the inside of his mouth; he could still taste the blood, no hiding the swelling or grazed skin. He took a deep breath and grabbed one last look at the sunset before he disappeared around the nearest corner and sprinted down a side lane. He ducked into a small shop, out the back, down the alley and into another business.

He snapped the battery back into his cell phone, liberated from the Marshals, and checked the real-time app. Nothing like tracking buses with GPS. He smiled at the clerk at the front counter, who seemed miffed at how he'd suddenly appeared before her. If he'd been dressed other than in an expensive suit, she'd likely have called 911 instead of politely asking if he needed assistance. Moments later, with a small purchase tucked under his arm, he stepped out onto a busy main street and hopped onto an MTA bus. He had to congratulate the MTA on their BusTime apps.

Neal always found it remarkable at how fast buses navigated cities. He wondered how they never ended up in more accidents, halting abruptly at designated stops then forcing their way back into traffic. Block after block passed before Neal exited, walking briskly up the busy street and slipping around a corner. He pulled his collar up, tilted his head down and sauntered up the street.

* * *

A dark navy sedan waited for the bus to pull away. The sedan turned right and proceeded slowly down the street. The sedan kept pace with the man walking along the street, then rapidly jerked in front of him at the corner, the door swinging open.

* * *

O O O


	17. Winds

**17 EXPORTS**

Previously: Peter and the White Collar Unit had arrested Zantele and indicted him, only to have him released on bail. Neal had been "arrested" too but escaped the Marshals' custody. Neal had covertly met with Zantele. Then he'd hopped a bus and was walking up a side street when a dark sedan started following him then jerked in front of him, the door swinging open.

* * *

Sara walked curtly through the White Collar bullpen to Peter's office. Jones and Diana cautiously watched her, both catching each other in the process of contemplating the significance of her presence. They shrugged in unison.

"Peter."

Peter heard his name called as both a greeting and a command for attention. He caught himself with a quick double take at the familiar voice entering through his doorway. He slowly pulled his attention from his computer screen, his thoughts lost once again in piecing minute details into some semblance of a pattern, and met the stern eyes of Sara Ellis.

"Sara." Peter's warm greeting echoed with surprise. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"No." A melancholy note rang through her voice. "I suppose not."

"What can I do for you?"

The question was sincere but Sara cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. "Well, considering that none of my previous inquiries about Neal met with anything other than 'Sorry, it's an ongoing investigation', maybe it should be _what can I do for you?_"

Peter tipped his head ever so slightly, a small glint of curiosity dancing across his face, his mouth briefly registering a wry smile. Sara's shrewd ability to quickly obtain information, and logically string mismatched data into something concrete, had long ago garnered Peter's respect. He also knew that she had been drawn to Neal, the same way he had: Neal's intelligence and charisma were intoxicating. Albeit her fascination had taken her down an entirely different path.

Sara held up her PDA phone, enticingly tipping it from side to side, a coy smile touching her lips. "Wanna share?"

* * *

The late afternoon sun streamed into the west-facing windows of the White Collar unit. It also bounced off nearby buildings, casting soft shadows and bathing the office in an orange glow. Peter could feel the warmth of the sun. He could also feel the occasional questioning glances from the bullpen and hear the gentle rock of the chair Sara Ellis occupied in the conference room.

Peter's index fingers, pushed tightly together, tapped absently against his chin. He had tried in vain to concentrate on other cases since Neal's disappearance more than a month ago. He'd initially grappled with the possibility Neal had orchestrated another theft of Rembrandt's "Storm", along with his own escape. Only when Hughes had ranted for a good twenty minutes about criminals, lack of judgement, and reams of paperwork, had Peter found himself adamantly defending Neal Caffrey, first as an FBI asset, then a partner and finally a friend, a_ good_ friend.

Now he sat, waiting, agonizingly waiting, for a piece of paper from Hughes that would grant Sara status as a term consultant, so he could share case info with her. Not so long ago he wouldn't have been frustrated with the paperwork. Policy, Procedures and Principles all required paperwork—more aptly, forms—to ensure that Policy, Procedures and Principles were met. It was supposed to make everyone accountable. Accountability, though, often became synonymous with liability. Either way, paperwork took time, and the greater the liability, the more protracted its completion. Peter had once embraced paperwork; it was, after all, the cornerstone of good case management. Unfortunately, or _fortunately_, Peter's faith in paperwork had succumbed to the Neal Caffrey skewed principle of right and wrong. _Plan everything. Plan nothing. Leave no evidence. And 'if what I'm doing is right why would I have to fill a form out, ask permission, do what's right, then fill another form out to say what I did, then write a report to detail everything I just did, which includes filling a form out, asking ... seriously! Peter, I would be old and gray, and you'd be dead, if I followed all those rules. Isn't it just easier to do what's right?' He had started to open his mouth in protest but Neal had disappeared around a corner. Besides he might well have ended up dead save for Neal's involvement._

Peter shook himself from his meandering thoughts. He glanced up quickly to ensure no one had caught him lost in another Neal Caffrey moment. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

He shoved his chair back and headed to the conference room. Damn it! He'd meet later with Sara. Go off the books once again. Accomplish what was _right_ without the FBI paperwork.

"You'll want this."

_Did Reese Hughes walk that quietly?_ Peter turned to face him.

Hughes nodded, then sighed. "Tread lightly, Agent Burke. Everyone's watching." He held the paperwork out with a deliberate slowness.

Peter quickly leafed through the five pages, more from habit than wanting to know what was there; he already knew. "Thank you. I..."

"Just ... get the job done, Burke."

Hughes was nearly back to his office. _The man did walk quietly._

* * *

"You're fortunate I'm patient, Agent Burke."

"Persistent," Peter corrected.

Sara sat up in her chair. "Are we good to go?"

Peter slid the paperwork to her. "Sign on all the dotted lines."

Sara rolled her eyes; she was all too familiar with the drudgery of paperwork. "Done. Now what's the _ongoing investigation_?"

"Uh-uh, not so fast. You have more than what's on your PDA."

Sara gritted her teeth. Peter stood unflinching.

"All right. I know that Neal's missing, vanished, not a word. Until today."

Peter kept the waves of questions and emotion in check. He sat in the chair next to Sara, close, yet just outside of her personal space. He wasn't interrogating her.

"I know that about a month ago this office was nothing but chaos. I know the Marshals' Office raked you over the coals for not having the tracker on Caffrey. Even though, technically, they were the ones who were supposed to have him in custody. Apparently because you had arrested him for stealing a painting from the FBI." Sara scoffed, "I'm sorry, I just can't imagine what painting the FBI would have hanging around that would even remotely tempt Neal. And I know anything you seize goes right back to the owners to avoid any damage suits. So, I figured it was a pretty lame, bogus charge for some operation."

Peter provided only a flicker of recognition to confirm her suspicions.

Sara sighed. "Rumor also has it that an FBI agent from Boston was here helping you. He's also on the MIA list. Then there's an Interpol bulletin for some mob guy, Zantele, that your office posted around the same time. So! That would be: a thief, aka consultant; a painting; an FBI agent; a mob boss; ..." Sara paused. "Is there anything else you've misplaced, Agent Burke?"

Peter gave her a cockeyed smile. "Misplaced?"

"Yes. Now your turn."

Sara listened intently to the briefing Peter provided in regards to the operation with Emile Zantele.

"Neal hid Rembrandt's _'The Storm on the Sea of Galilee'_ in the new Art Crimes unit? They hung it up? And no one ever questioned it?" Sara smirked. "Oh, that is so Caffrey. You didn't by chance come across my Raphael he stole. _Allegedly_ stole." she corrected after catching Peter's admonishing glance.

Peter continued, Sara questioning now and then.

"So, you let Neal paint another forgery of the 'Storm'?"

"Technically, a copy of the 'Storm'. And it was more of a rework." Peter was quick to answer her quizzical look. "Neal created a copy of the 'Storm' several years ago. He had it sent to the Art Crimes Unit in Boston from the same _anonymous donor_ he created for the one here—he hoped to throw any suspicion off the real painting he'd hidden here in plain view. We wanted to use his copy now but it had been tagged with an isotope for security tracking. We'd seized a forgery from Zantele's father too; Neal's accomplice at the time had done the painting. Neal reworked it to present to Zantele."

"But then Neal, the paintings, Bob Roberts and Zantele disappear, with no leads as to where?"

"None."

"Do you think Zantele realized the painting was Neal's?"

"Oh, no. No. Zantele never got to see Neal's painting from our end."

Sara pursed her lips. "Then why was Zantele convinced it was the original?"

Peter's eyes lit up. "Because Neal is Neal."

"That really is not helpful." Sara frowned. "Ya gonna let me in on your little secret?"

Sara watched with amusement as Peter mulled over the thought of sharing what obviously was a secret. Peter rolled his chair closer to her, his hands propped between his knees; he gave her one last hard look.

"You signed the papers, but this, this never gets repeated."

Sara nodded quickly in agreement. "Yes. Yes of course."

Peter wasn't one for sharing info, especially when it came to anything involving one _Neal Caffrey_. The contacts Sara had, however, could be invaluable, particularly now as she obviously held information beyond what he had gathered in the last month or so. _Leads had slowly dwindled to a trickle, until they had dried up and blown away on the wind. When even the wind seemed to have ceased, the silence became deafening to Peter. Neal had vanished on that wind, along with everything and everyone else involved with the case, so right about now, he'd almost be willing to deal with the Devil._

"Fine, but after today, none of this is open for discussion." Peter spoke with a hushed, covert tone.

Sara nodded with a reassuring softness, conveying with every part of her being that Peter could trust her.

"We only had a small window, two weeks, to pull everything together. Neal had no doubts Zantele would follow through on his threats. Neal gave up the original. Yes, Neal Caffrey doing right. I think in part 'cause he couldn't stand the thought of Zantele getting the Rembrandt. Which he probably now has, along with Neal." The hurt was obvious through the whispered words. Peter sighed, "Anyway. We couldn't turn the original over, Neal knew that. But, we could convince Zantele that Neal had the original, provide proof, and end up with enough evidence on Zantele, game over."

Sara shook her head. "Zantele would test it, with more than one test and probably more than one expert. Even with a good forgery you'd never get it through all the tests."

"No." Peter grinned, then closed the distance between them to a mere hand's width. "But with a piece of the original..."

"You didn't?" Sara pulled back incredulously.

"Nope. Neal, of course, knew the history of the heist inside and out." Peter paused, waiting for Sara to move back closer. "We took a trip to Boston. To the Gardner. Off the books. Often, stolen paintings are cut from their frames, neat and quick. The two Gardner thieves were brutal: they tore the painting out. They got the 'Storm', but..."

"Not all of it. You got a piece they left in the frame."

"Uh, yeah."

"Oh!" Sara hadn't missed Peter's sheepish look.

_More aptly, Neal obtained a piece from the frame. The Gardner Museum had left the frames hanging, just as they were some 20 years ago when the theft took place. Even if it was a scrap from the painting, it was still a well-secured scrap that the Gardner wouldn't likely give up without explanation, protocol between agencies, and paperwork. None of which they had time for with Neal's life literally hanging in the balance. Neal expropriated the largest piece he could find, literally beaming as he handed the piece to Peter. Peter closed his eyes and prayed once again that he would still have a job at the end of the day._

"Okay," Sara continued. "That would test positive but how would that 'prove' Neal's forgery?"

"Ohhhh, Neal truly is a master when it comes to forgeries." Sara was surprised at the appreciative sparkle in Peter's eyes. She knew he liked smart but this was akin to pure admiration. "Every aspect, the paint, the canvas—front and back—to the finest of details, was sheer perfection. It really would take experts and a few tests to raise suspicions.

Peter caught the exasperated expression creeping across Sara's face. "I haven't answered your question, have I?"

"Nope. And when did you become prez of the _Neal Caffrey Fan Club_?"

Peter scowled at her but she returned a soft knowing smile.

Peter chortled, "Sorry, I... As annoying as he can be, I guess ... I miss having him around."

"Ya think."

Peter sighed in submission. "Neal matched the scrap of the original canvas to his forgery. Every thread, the paint, the marks from the frame. Everything. It truly was remarkable. If you put the scrap in its place in the forgery it disappeared into the painting. Even under magnification."

"Wow." Sara was impressed. She wasn't often impressed. "So, you provided the scrap to Zantele for testing. Then planned on Zantele matching the scrap to the forged painting. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Who wouldn't make the assumption that if one piece is real, all of it must be, especially when they fit together like puzzle pieces. Whhooooaaaa." She breathed the last word out, suddenly lost in her own thoughts. _She'd underestimated Caffrey. Not like her. She'd also started to fall for him. Not like her. She also desperately wanted him back in her life. Not like her. Miss Independence was losing herself to the Neal Caffrey charm._

"What? Sorry, what?" Peter had been asking her something.

"Your PDA? What's on your PDA?"

"Oh, sorry. Yes." She handed the PDA to him and flicked the screen.

A cheerful tone rang out but the back-light of the PDA cast an unnerving pall on Peter's face.

_"El. No mins. 353 54 851084-5 81 ext2758. LostID $5ood. Need P.B&J. Candy home. Stormin there not here. Luv GD"_

* * *

O O O

Note: The above text message would not load into FanFic as I wanted. There would be fewer spaces and an at symbol.


	18. Bored

**18 BORED**

* * *

2 a.m. on the other side of the Atlantic.

The orange glow of a sodium lamp cast a long, light shadow across the wall of the small room Neal occupied. Rain spattered against the window, creating a pattern within the shadow of light, each droplet graying the orange glow, except for a thin bright crescent on each. The surface tension held them in place like so many tiny jewels, until gravity slowly forced a few to collide and race down the glass in hapless rivulets.

Neal cradled his head in the crux of his right elbow. He plucked at bits of nothingness, brushed the non-existent tufts away, then smoothed the dull brown blanket back into place.

Tired. Restless. Bored. Neal sighed, rolled once again onto his back, both arms tucked under his head, and stared up at the stark white ceiling.

The sodium light danced like sunlight across the ceiling, casting long shadows created by tiny bits of dust and grit long ago caught in the paint. A lunar landscape danced into existence, a solar eclipse causing the orange glow. As the eclipse rode through the night sky, the moon rotated into a curtain of gray, then a shroud of blackness fell, momentarily hanging across the moon like a heavy stage curtain. Then darkness.

Darkness.

Interrupted only by his own deep breaths of sleep and the rapid eye movement of dreams.

_The glint from a handgun had beckoned Neal into the sedan._

_Followed by a booming voice he had become acquainted with over the last two weeks._

_"Get in now!"_

_Neal hesitated._

_He stepped back._

_Then tucked into the front seat._

_"Cell phone." The command was blunt, simple, and punctuated by a casual flick of the gun._

_"Nope, you can pop the battery out first." The gun waved casually back and forth this time._

_Neal complied, handing the battery and cell over, which bounced and scattered along the street after being unceremoniously dumped out a cracked window._

_"Any chance of not having that pointed at me?" Neal nodded toward the gun, his eyes fixed on it._

_"Oh, in due time. Seems you're a bit of an escape artist as well as a forger, Caffrey."_

_Neal glanced hesitantly sideways, flinching when a roll of duct tape dropped into his lap._

_"If you wouldn't mind securing your ankles together first, then right wrist to left knee. Justta slow any thoughts of an exit while we're moving."_

_Neal let out a tired breath. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, as if he had done this a thousand times and couldn't believe he had to do it again._

_He finished, tossing the roll of tape onto the seat._

_He was surprised by the object now being waved at him._

_"Take it. Now."_

_Neal looked up suspiciously._

_A glance from his captor suggested frustration with his hesitation._

_"I figured with that smart mouth of yours, Zantele was likely to let Trenton get a couple of smacks in before letting you out of the SUV."_

_Neal sighed and yanked the icepack from Special Agent Bob Roberts._

_"It works better if you apply it."_

_The annoyance in Roberts' voice urged Neal to once again comply. He gingerly pressed the icepack against his swollen lip and chin. The blood had dried where his lip was split but the grazed skin burned under the coolness of the icepack. He held the pack awkwardly with his left hand across him for a good ten minutes._

_His head pressed back into the headrest.  
He slipped down in the seat a little.  
Closed his eyes for just a moment._

_The sedan sped down several side streets, wheeled around a couple of corners, into a parking garage, and out onto a main thoroughfare on the other side. They drove for a good twenty minutes in silence. Finally, the sedan slipped down another side street and pulled into the underground parking for a large hotel._

_Neal could hear a voice calling his name. Then something hard jabbing into his side._

_"Remarkable! I'm pointing a gun at you; you're bound with duct tape; you have no idea what's happening.** And you're ****sound asleep!" **Roberts emphasized the last words with a hard jab of the gun into his ribs._

_"Oww," Neal griped._

Another jab into his side.

Neal grabbed at the offending object.

"Oww, yourself. I like fingers attached, Nick," A hoarse, deep voice whispered.

Neal, aka Nick, blinked, pulling himself back to the present, and looked into the round face of James Flynn.

At most, Flynn was in his late thirties, but the sea-weathered face on the stocky man left him looking far older than his years. More surprising though was the man's agility and soft foot. On more than one occasion he'd stepped up behind Neal and unintentionally startled him. Likewise, it allowed him to slip down the passageway to Neal's cell without rousing the guard from a light slumber.

"What?" Neal whispered.

"I'm gone in the morn. D'ya want me ta get y'anythin?"

"Out." Neal propped himself up on one arm.

Flynn snickered, his eyes dancing with mischief for a fleeting moment.

"Ah, don't I wish I could."

"Can you send another message for me?"

"Kud do more than that."

"No, too risky. Don't know who's watching."

Neal liked Flynn. Did he trust him? Not likely. Nor did Neal feel like putting the man in any further danger. Of course Flynn wasn't exempt from causing trouble. He was, after all, the reason he and Neal currently found themselves locked up. Flynn, however, now seemed to have convinced the authorities he should be released. Neal, without paperwork, on foreign soil, had to hope the cavalry had received his message and was willing to effect a release.

It wasn't a complicated message, just one that the people who knew Neal would understand. He'd sent one already to Sara. Sara, who had some seedy worldwide business contacts, and as such, an encrypted PDA under a false name. Sara, who would go running straight to Peter. He'd considered Mozzie, but because of the false allegations surrounding the theft of the painting, Neal was concerned Mozzie would act on his own, and this involved more than just getting him out of a detention center.

Neal swung his legs off the bunk and grabbed a scandal-ridden tabloid tucked between the mattress and wall. He tore a strip from the edge, scribbled three words onto it with a stub of a pencil, and handed it to Flynn.

"Either you, or yours, are an off lot." Flynn shook his head, then offered a hand. "Cheers, Nicky b'y."

Neal shook Flynn's outstretched hand, "Lock the door on the way out."

A crooked smile spread across Flynn's face. He nodded, then slipped out the door, closing it smoothly behind him, with only the slightest click as the tumblers turned and dropped the bolt back into place.

Neal grabbed his pillow and chucked it into place at the opposite end of the bunk. He thumped his head back onto the pillow and glared up at the stark ceiling yet again. He exhaled, a slow, frustrated breath, and rubbed his face with both hands, running his fingers across his head until he clenched two handfuls of unruly, dark hair. He pulled his elbows in and tightened his grip. He wanted to yell until his lungs hurt. He wanted out. He wanted to turn back time. _Why hadn't he run? He could have run. It would've been so easy. In the past he wouldn't have hesitated. But now, now he was tied up with the FBI, with Peter. A certain comfort had crept into his world as he worked with people he'd come to... _Neal clenched his fists tighter, gritting his teeth._ He should've run. The angle was off, a quick dodge left, a sprint back down the street, round the corner, into a shop and gone. Then none of the last thirty-seven days, sixteen hours and forty-two minutes would have happened._

Neal had played back the moment over and over, berating himself for not running when he could have done so. He knew now that Special Agent Bob Roberts would never have shot him. Too much had happened, though, to let his frustrating thoughts rest. He slammed the side of his fist into the cold concrete wall.

"Great idea, Caffrey! Break your hand," Neal chided quietly into the empty cell.

He already had enough breaks and bruises and aches to last a lifetime. Self-inflicted ones he could do without. He sighed and rolled onto his left side, carefully positioning his throbbing right hand on the pillow. He stifled a yawn but couldn't slow the heavy, tired weight of his eyelids.


	19. Plans

**19 PLANS**

* * *

"Seven doesn't seem so lucky anymore," a low voice murmured from the far end of the table.

"What?"

"Seven. You know, lucky ..."

"... number seven. Yes, Mozzie, we get that part," Diana assured him.

"Well, Neal would be seven, wouldn't he!" Mozzie's irate, hurt tone cut through them all.

Six individuals sat uncomfortably at Peter Burke's dining room table.

Six individuals with a single goal.

A goal to find Neal Caffrey.

Peter was fully sanctioned to go after Caffrey, and the once-again missing Rembrandt. Only this time his reports were being reviewed with a very critical eye. Understandable, as Neal was his sole responsibility and the whole operation with Zantele had gone completely sideways. Peter just didn't know who the eyes belonged to. Hughes for certain, then up the chain of command; beyond that the reports could be accessed by anyone with the same clearance as Hughes. With the disappearance of Neal, the painting, Zantele, and Special Agent Roberts, Peter didn't trust anyone but those closest to him, and close to Neal, so once again he stepped outside of the office.

Peter had brought El, Diana, Jones, Sara, and of course Mozzie, in on his plans to go after Neal somewhat outside of regular channels. Mozzie had taken some extra persuasion and only Peter's greatest asset could convince him to show. Still, Peter was surprised at how quick Mozzie had responded to El's call.

_"Yes, a cake to celebrate a reunion." A nod and smile up at Peter._

_"Yes. It requires special attention to detail." Another nod._

_"I have something special to write on it." A smile._

_"Oh, you would definitely appreciate it! Can you deliver it for seven at Burke's?" A sly wink._

Seven sharp the doorbell rang. The brim of a delivery hat for The Greatest Cake just peeked over the top of a large, deep blue cake box tied with silver string. Peter took the box that was shoved towards him.

"Mozzie." Peter ushered the elusive man in. But he had already slipped past Peter and tucked himself into the far corner of the dining room near the back door.

"Oh," El smiled, "you brought a cake?" She let a gentle touch linger on Mozzie's crossed arms.

A slight grin flicked across Peter's mouth as he watched the little man relax ever so slightly. Mozzie rocked side to side then found himself a chair, which he positioned in the same spot he had stood. Mozzie scowled at Peter and beyond that utterly refused to acknowledge his presence.

Everyone else arrived shortly after, as requested, in deference to Mozzie. El served the cake, a rich, dark chocolate cake with butter-cream icing and gold flakes loosely sprinkled across the top. Mozzie smiled with his eyes only, as El offered him a coffee, black with demerara sugar, and a slice of cake.

"Neal's favorite," he half whispered to her.

Peter perked up, certain that he was meant to hear the comment. Mozzie knew exactly how to pitch his voice for his intended audience. El, always aware of Peter's moods and thoughts, turned without moving away from Mozzie and provided Peter with a warm smile, overflowing with the love and concern she held for those around her. Peter's mood lifted. He smiled back.

Peter brought everyone up to speed as they savored the cake and coffee. Then Mozzie's ability to pointedly remind everyone of reality yanked them back to their daunting task. The moist cake no longer melted into the mouth, the coffee turned bitter and a heaviness hung in the air.

Peter sighed. He placed his fork beside his half-eaten cake. He wiped his mouth and tucked the napkin under his plate, then stretched his arms against the table.

"Moz, I know right now you have no trust for me, or any of us. El being the exception," he added hastily.

Mozzie's eyes briefly rested on Elizabeth, then menacingly glared at Peter.

"Okay, no love lost whatsoever."

Peter sighed again, realizing everyone expected him to bridge the gap with Mozzie. Negatives of any type wouldn't get him within miles of Mozzie's sanctum. He changed his tack. "Moz, truth is, we ... I ..., can't do this without your help. It's not a manhunt, it's a **rescue."**

Mozzie continued to glare.

Everyone was holding their breath.

Mozzie finally leaned forwarded and extended a hand.

"Message."

Peter spread several sheets of paper across the table, each with the message typed across the top.

"El. No mins. 353 54 851084-5 81 ext2758. LostID $5ood. Need P.B&J. Candy home. Stormin there not here. Luv GD"

Mozzie pulled his leather-bound notepad and a pen from inside his jacket and began writing. He looked up as he felt eyes watching him. "Yes?"

"I think Peter was hoping everyone one would work on this together." El tapped Mozzie's arm.

"Aren't we?" Moz questioned.

Jones stifled a laugh. "Together we are, Moz." He flipped open the laptop he'd brought with him, tapped a few keys and turned the screen to Moz.

Then a remarkable thing happened: a smile crept across Mozzie's face, his lips parted and the smile made its way to his eyes. He looked at Jones over his glasses. Jones nodded. Mozzie pulled the laptop closer, tapped a few keys and flipped the laptop back towards Jones.

"_ 'If you want total security ... '_ "

Jones raised an eyebrow. "Figures!"

"You two wanna let the rest of us in," Peter half demanded.

"Um, sorry, Boss." Jones looked around at everyone. "Uh, well, Neal's in..."

"Prison," Mozzie finished. " _'Things are what they are and will be what they will be'_."

"What?" Peter and El chimed together.

"Where?" Sara prompted.

"Eisenhower? Oscar Wilde?" Diana scoffed in question.

"Ireland." Jones answered, then spun around to Diana. "What?"

Mozzie was polishing his glasses. "Larne, either at a jail or detention center."

"Larne, Ireland?" Sara demanded as much as queried.

"Whoa! Everyone slow down." Peter stood, effectively stopping the chatter at the table.

"Yes," Mozzie jumped back in. "How many suits are trained in quotes?"

"It's an elite, covert op." Diana deadpanned to Mozzie, then feigned a sheepish look at Peter. "Sorry, I've already said too much."

Mozzie's eyes glazed over with conspiracy theory thoughts.

"Oh, for God's sake, Mozzie, she's joking." Peter plunked his hands onto the table. "Could we get back to the message. To Neal. Please."

Jones cleared his throat. "The first three numbers, 353, are the country code for Ireland. Then we played with the rest as phone numbers but that seemed too obvious, so we went with coordinates. The best one was Hope Street in Larne. The police station aka detention center was the closest point."

"What's the gist with aka detention center?"

"Terrorists. IRA. Homeland Security," Mozzie whispered.

"Great!" Peter threw his arms up. "Neal's being held in Larne, Ireland as a terrorist?"

Mozzie started muttering to himself about suits, conspiracies, trust. _He wasn't supposed to be trusting suits._ He swung sidewise in the chair.

El stopped his retreat. "He's just worried about Neal too, Moz. We all are. Stay."

Moz looked at the gentle hand on top of his own. For sure Peter had strategically stationed El next to him but the straightforward honesty that exuded from El was compelling. He grimaced a smile and turned back in his seat, folding his arms solidly in front of him.

El gave Peter the you-better-make-it-right-now glare and nodded towards Mozzie.

"Sorry, Moz. Fill us in on Larne."

"It's a seaport in Northern Ireland." Mozzie stared up at Peter, who slowly sat back down in his chair. "There's been some controversy over the last few months about extending the police station into a detention center for illegal immigrants. They hold them in the police cells now—cells designed for a one-night stay. Which breaches nearly every international edict for holding—" Mozzie stopped short, seeing the tension returning to Peter's eyes; he continued with info he felt a suit would find more reassuring. "It's one of the few police stations that's still fortified: gates, bars, lots of cameras."

"And Neal's there for certain?"

"He said he was Five-O'd."

Peter furrowed his brow.

"The message, 'LostID $5ood.' " Mozzie shook his head. "No paperwork. No money to buy out. Cops have him, or are watching. That's the Five-0'd part." Mozzie being Mozzie couldn't end there. "Hawaii Five-0. Steve McGarrett. T.V. Series originally aired from 1968 to 1980. Resurrected in 2010. The best part being the theme music by Morton Stevens."

Peter clamped his open mouth shut as he caught El's flash of admonishment.

"Ookay." Peter clenched his teeth and returned to the message. "We know the _'El'_ is so the message got to us via Sara."

"Or 'cause he knew he could trust Elizabeth." Mozzie had returned to glowering at Peter.

"I'm taking it that _'No mins'_ is that he's running short on time," Peter continued.

Mozzie gave a _yes_ with a barely perceptible blink of his eyes. Everyone else nodded in agreement.

"We have a location. Looks like we'll need a passport, and possibly a cover story."

"And the dollar sign means he'll need money." Jones shook his head before he realized he'd interrupted Peter. "What? He's always hitting me up for cash."

"Yep." Sara rolled her eyes. "Million dollar paintings secreted away and not a dime in his pocket."

"Thousand-dollar tailored suit pockets," Diana corrected. "And that would be _allegedly_ secreted away."

Laughter. Brought about by fond memories of Neal Caffrey and a renewed sense of hope.

Then El raised her hand up, catching the group's attention. "I get the next one since it's a food clue."

More snickers of laughter. _'P.B&J'_ certainly didn't refer to Peanut Butter and Jelly, rather Peter, Berrigan and Jones.

"Oh, I realize you've all got the 'P,B&J' part." El gave a rare smirk. "I just wanted to point out the one-word preamble, _'Need'_."

Peter noted the quick head tilts and lowered eyes, including his own. El could well have been a queen holding court, making a quick and shrewd summation to guide her courtiers.

Mozzie leaned towards Elizabeth. "The suit might not deserve you but we _need_ you. So does Neal."

El patted Mozzie's hand. She intuitively knew that single, light touch would give comfort, and garner almost immediate compliance from Mozzie. Most people, for that matter. Not to manipulate, or control, but because she cared, and believed so strongly in what she was doing. They just couldn't help but want to follow her lead. El glanced up into Peter's smiling eyes. Although he and Moz continued to exchange a few daggers, she knew they had returned to their cordial, conspiratorial, we-only-tolerate-each-other-for-Neal's-benefit dance.

"Okay, so if I'm Jelly," Jones tapped his finger on one of the sheets of paper. "Who's '_Candy'_?"

A whimsical laugh caught in Peter's throat. He had failed in covering it with a light cough.

"Uh, that would be the tracker."

"What?" The question came in unison.

"Don't ask, I don't know. Neal called the tracker _'her'_, and then _'Candy'_ on a couple of occasions."

"A mistress. Inescapably twined around him. There each night, on his mind each day, yet he keeps her hidden from the world," Mozzie spoke absently into the table. Then he slowly brought his eyes up to Peter's, with a icy calmness that sliced into Peter until he actually shivered. "Well, that's a clear message to you, isn't it, Agent Burke?"

Peter shrugged in question, his hands flexing open.

Mozzie's intensity increased. "The tracker, _'Candy'_, home. He wants back here. On your terms, Burke."

Mozzie shook his head disapprovingly, his words rolling out softly in a hush. "He never calls anywhere home. Honestly, if he can get a message out, he can get himself out. He's asking for your help so he can come back here. He wants to come _home_, Peter."

The emphasis on, and use of, his first name wasn't lost on Peter, or anyone else in the room.

"Whatever you have to do, Peter, do it." El provided a solid confirmation to Peter that Moz was right.

"We're here, Peter, hundred'n ten percent." Diana and Jones offered up their unwavering support.

"Hey, you know I'm in." Sara looked over to Peter. "Made me sign on the dotted line too."

"In blood?" Jones asked nonchalantly.

Soft laughter followed.

Peter scoffed, while appreciatively smiling at the unusual rescue team. Neal's magnetic field had pulled them all in. Whoever Neal was, whatever he had done, or might be doing, when he locked onto someone, he created a bond that people would risk careers, life and limb, all, to have that field wash over them again. Like a magnet, though, he could push away the positive and pull in the negative. And when the negative wanted to break the bond, they too were willing to go to any length.

Peter sighed, "Thanks. I guess the rest of the message is pretty straightforward."

"You think the Rembrandt's here?" Diana queried, knowing full well that the painting had disappeared from the location she secured it in. She'd be having a long talk with Neal about privacy and stealing things she had secured.

"Yup. But where?" Peter bit into his bottom lip. "We'll have to wait for Neal on that one."

"And the _'GD'_?" Sara asked.

"Ohhhh, one of the many aliases. Just not sure which one. Danvary? Donnelly? Devore?"

"Halden."

The name was spoken with such strong certainty by Mozzie that Peter almost felt absurd in questioning him. "Nicholas Halden?"

"The alias you let him keep." Mozzie bobbed his head in assurance, with a quick proviso, "It's not on Interpol."

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. "All right." He gritted his teeth and tilted his head. "But I'm not asking how you know it's NOT on Interpol."

Jones and Diana both snickered. El smiled at Moz, who was gloating quietly.

"I guess we're going to Ireland," Peter stated matter-of-fact.


	20. Patience

**20 PATIENCE**

Previously: Zantele threatened to kill Neal if Neal didn't return his father's stolen painting to him. Instead, Neal turned the stolen Rembrandt painting from the Gardner Museum heist over to Peter. Zantele was arrested, indicted and released on bail for organized crime offenses. Neal was also arrested as part of a sting against Zantele. Neal created a near-perfect copy of the painting. Together with a small scrap of the original painting as proof of authenticity, they hoped to put Zantele with the real painting and get evidence as to the threats against Neal. The best-laid plans don't always work out—well, at least not the plans of Peter and Neal. And Neal, Zantele and Agent Roberts all end up missing in action. Now Peter has finally received a message from Neal nearly a month after his latest disappearance.

Enjoy!

O O O

* * *

Neal tossed restlessly. He drifted just below the surface of wakefulness, in sporadic dreams, memories and regrets.

_New York raced into his head. The lights. The noise. All the smells and clatter of the city enveloped him, embracing him like a lost son. A blue silk scarf with small silver flowers - Forget-me-nots - delicately embroidered at one end, wound through his fingers. A gift, carefully wrapped in a cylindrical presentation box. He tucked it under his arm, then smiled, knowing Peter would have some reproving remark. A vehicle screeched to a halt in front of him. Agent Roberts' face loomed from inside the dark navy sedan. Where was Peter? Jones? They were supposed to scoop him up. They knew exactly where he was: his text was precise. Time, place, no room for errors, so why was Roberts here? Jones' text back was clear, 'right, right again, Peter or him, rented sedan'._

_He hesitated._

_A man with a handgun leveled at him shouldn't hesitate._

_A con man with a handgun leveled at him by an FBI agent he didn't trust in the first place, really shouldn't be lost in thought as to why his 'partner' wasn't there!_

_Roberts had driven them to an underground parking garage. He was incredulous when Neal hadn't immediately responded to to his name being called nor being jabbed in the ribs. Neal had no intentions of jumping to attention for Roberts._

_Roberts rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder Burke never shot you."_

_Neal yawned._

_Rubbed his eyes with his free hand._

_Pushed himself up in the seat._

_And blinked at Roberts with little surprise or reproach at his last comment._

_"Figure I'd already be shot if you didn't need me for something."_

_"True."_

_"So. I'm just going to sit back for the ride. At least until the point where you consider me expendable."_

_Roberts humphed. "Well, this part of the ride just ended."_

_Roberts exited the sedan and walked around to Neal's door. He grumbled some more then flipped a knife open._

_"What makes you think I wouldn't slit your throat?"_

_Neal cocked an eye in his direction. "Messy. Plus you don't strike me as the hands-on killer type."_

_Roberts snorted. He cut the duct tape around Neal's ankles, then slipped the knife along the tape around his arm and leg._

_"Get out!"_

_Neal calmly exited the sedan. He stood between it and a white delivery van. The van was backed in, with the sedan tight to the wall. The positioning effectively concealed them from the security cameras, although the dim lighting in this far corner would have blurred any images. The hotel appeared to have been refurbished to meet a higher standard of clientele. Regardless of the cosmetic efforts, the whirring of an ancient ventilation system failed to pull the smell of old concrete, oil, and road grime from the stale air._

('You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' An old saying of his grandfather's drifted fleetingly into his dreams. Memories of days long past had slowly been creeping in, colliding with recent events and filtering into his consciousness. Neal shifted and stirred; he rolled onto his side, his closed eyes darting back and forth rapidly.)

_"Strip down." Roberts ordered bluntly._

_Neal gaped at him._

_"Oh, don't go there. Ya spent nearly four years in prison. Ya know the drill." Roberts leaned back on the hood of the sedan, arms crossed, with the ever-present handgun lazily pointed in Neal's direction._

_Neal may have seemed apathetic towards Roberts but he took in every word, every intonation and response, and every idiosyncrasy. Neal casually removed his jacket. He started to fold it, only to have Roberts snatch it, pull the passport and visa he'd received from Zantele from the inside breast pocket, then toss the jacket onto the front passenger floor of the sedan._

_Neal stared at him, then raised an eyebrow. "Should've known you'd have no appreciation for a good suit jacket."_

_Roberts let out a guttural growl and stepped into Neal. He pushed the handgun hard against Neal's temple. Neal closed his eyes for a brief moment, then kept them lowered, his head tipped uncomfortably in an effort to reduce the pressure from the barrel of the gun._

_"You're really trying my patience. Strip. Down. Now," Roberts ground out in a low, dark voice._

_Neal exhaled the breath he held. He raised his hands cautiously and started unbuttoning his shirt._

_Roberts repositioned himself against the sedan._

_"Everything."_

_"Is this really necessary?" Neal removed his left, then right sock._

_"Not taking any chances Burke wired you up with sound or a GPS tracker, especially something you could turn on after an electronic sweep."_

_Neal sighed. He put both arms out to the side, hands palm up, and shrugged a go-ahead to Roberts._

_A visual check and an electronic sweep netted Neal a set of navy coveralls and a pair of running shoes._

_"Nice." Neal rolled the sleeves of the coveralls up. "Perfect fit."_

_"Just shut up and get in the van."_

_Roberts utilized the tape again, securing Neal's right wrist to a metal grab bar above the door._

_"TEB Aero." Neal read the insignia on the coveralls upside down. "Fred Walnan, sorry Walman. Never saw myself as a Fred. F r r ed. Fr e ed. Nope, definitely not a Fred. Hope you haven't spent money on an ID to go with the coveralls, 'cause I'm really not sure I can pull a Fred off."_

_Roberts rubbed the back of his neck and let out a long huff of air. He refused to acknowledge Neal for the rest of the drive, except for a couple for quick glances when Neal adjusted his position. When they pulled onto Moonachie Avenue, Roberts pulled the delivery van over, cut Neal free, and without warning, clipped him across the face._

_"One wrong word. One wrong move. I guarantee ya'll regret it." Roberts drove a finger into Neal's shoulder to emphasize each word, before slinging an ID tag over his head and tugging it into place around his neck. "You're driving."_

_They drove into the southern end of Teterboro Airport, where numerous private and corporate aircraft departed and arrived daily. The Port Authority operated the airport and adhered strictly to the security protocols of the TSA. With nearly 5000 employees, once your ID was checked, the concern always went to what was being transported. Roberts had already broken his handgun down and secured it. They signed in, presented the cargo manifest, completed all the standard checks and headed towards a hanger on the far right._

_Roberts pulled the van keys, rooted around for the infamous duct tape and secured Neal to the steering wheel. Roberts removed a couple of items from the rear of the van, which included several locked metal cases, security-sealed packing boxes and a large metal carrying tube. He moved everything to a Cessna that was powering up at the rear of the truck._

_Neal watched in the rear side mirror as a dark SUV pulled in behind the van. He recognized the passengers immediately. He startled when Roberts yanked the driver's door open._

_"You pri—" Neal trailed off with Roberts' glare. He shook his head slowly. "You know what he's going to do once he has the painting?"_

_Roberts scoffed, "For a con man, ya can be dense at times. Ya really think WE went to all this trouble just ta kill ya. You're the commodity, bub. The Rembrandt's a bonus."_

A clanging of cell bars brought Neal out of his fitful sleep. He woke exhausted. He felt like he'd been running frantically, always ending back in the small cell. Dull morning light mixed with the fluorescents that hummed on in his cell. Rain still drizzled down the high fixed window. He'd have been content to have the window open even a slit, anything to let the fresh air in, to let the sounds of the world in. A guard flipped the access port in the door open and placed a foil-covered paper plate and cup of hot coffee onto the port. The guard tapped a folded newspaper against the bars.

Neal lit up. "Yes. Thanks."

"Paper and a pencil, too."

Neal smiled. "You have a photograph?"

"I ca' get docked."

"It's just a drawing: no harm, right? Come on, I'm bored senseless; it's the least I could do." Neal waved the newly acquired 4-week-old copy of the NY Times at the guard with a gleeful grin. "Come on."

The guard held out a pocket-sized photo.

"You're a lucky man." Neal admired the photo of the guard's wife and two young daughters.

"Thanks."

"Don't ever forget they come first, the job second." His voice trailed off, as memories of other times, of family photos, crossed into his consciousness. He let out a soft sigh. "A day. I guess I'm here at least another day. I'll have it done for tomorrow. You're on shift tomorrow?"

"Gotta pay the piper." The guard nodded and headed back down the corridor.

Neal flipped the paper open on his bunk. He started reading, absently peeling the foil back on his breakfast. He decided to turn his attention fully to his meal. No point in rushing through the paper; it wasn't like he wouldn't have the time to read everything twice over. They'd switched things up this morning: the eggs were scrambled instead of the typical runny sunny-side-up; there were 2 slices of thick bacon instead of three, the third replaced with 2 overcooked sausages; 4 pieces of soggy toast; and score big time, 3 chunks of orange. He was always surprised by the coffee, hot and half decent. He ate slowly, forcing himself to distraction. He'd managed four years in prison, drawing, reading, educating himself in every manner of thing. He'd only become antsy and agitated at the end, when he desperately wanted to escape to find Kate. He felt panicked now, not knowing if Peter received his messages. Not knowing who might still be searching for him or when someone might twig to his identity.

He flipped another page of the newspaper and froze. _"FBI Hunt for Elusive Thief"_ and his ID photo graced the center of the page. He hadn't considered the time delay when he'd pleaded with the friendliest guard to get him an American newspaper, anything other than the tabloid he'd read over the last six days. He was thankful his escape from the Marshals hadn't been spectacular enough to make the front page this time. The FBI comments in the article were standard but a couple of quotes from one Agent Peter Burke stung:

_"He's not only a thief but a con man; he will take advantage of you ... we want this criminal back behind bars."_

Neal read the article several times, until he realized it only served to agitate him further. Peter was just taking the FBI stance for the papers, right? Anything else might have compromised him, them. Still, it stung.

He sighed. At least it looked like no one here had read the newspaper. For now he was relatively safe. Escape would have resulted in his photo being spread across the tabloids and newspapers in Ireland, possibly England. He'd been designated an illegal, with a somewhat off story of how he lost his ID, met James Flynn in a pub and begged a boat ride to England, where he had friends who could help him obtain transportation back to the USA. The authorities had been far more interested in knowing about James Flynn and the contraband on his boat. The lead investigator was suspicious of the mixed information from Neal and invoked one of the security clauses that allowed him to hold _National Security_ threats without affording the normal rights to counsel, a hearing or contact with a consulate. Neal had actually helped the process along, to avoid more formal and direct questions in policing circles. They'd sit on him, on the names he'd casually dropped, on the potential information. They'd make subtle enquiries without giving him up, if they thought he could offer them info on recent IRA activity. The dance, however, would only last so long before the charm wore off. Then the standard police procedures would be utilized—his photograph would go out, local and international inquiries would be made and the wrong people would know his location. He'd give Peter two more days, then he'd take his chances with escape, again.

Neal went back to reading his newspaper. He read the words but his thoughts were preoccupied with hoping Peter had received his messages, would arrive soon, and really didn't just want him behind bars.


	21. Calls

**21 CALL**

Previously: The best-laid plans don't always work out—well, at least not the plans of Peter and Neal. Neal, Zantele and Agent Roberts all end up missing in action. Now Peter has finally received a message from Neal nearly a month after his latest disappearance. Neal is being held at an Immigration Detention Centre in Larne, Northern Ireland. Peter, Diana and Jones are headed his way.

* * *

O O O

El wrapped her arms around Peter's chest and squeezed tight to him. She pressed her head against his shoulder, then stood on tiptoe to kiss the bristly cheek turned to her. She watched her husband in the mirror. The shave cream he was applying couldn't hide the lines of worry across his face. She rubbed his back and sighed.

He offered a warm, knowing smile. Then chuckled.

El scowled. "What?"

"Weren't you the one who complained you had to compete for my attentions with Caffrey for nearly 3 years?"

She smacked him playfully on the shoulder. "You can be a pain, Mr. Burke. I'll get you some breakfast."

Peter watched her exit in the mirror, then caught his own reflection. The trials and tribulations with Neal Caffrey were taking their toll. Although he often felt like a kid on a roller coaster with him, he also suffered from that woozy feeling when the roller coaster jarred to an abrupt stop. This time that feeling had lingered for weeks, slowly turning to trepidation—he peered closer at his reflection—and a couple of gray hairs.

Within an hour Peter was mired in traffic. He started mentally checking off everything he needed.

Diana and Jones had already obtained two cover IDs for themselves. Peter decided the extra precaution couldn't hurt; who knew what Neal had managed to fall into. He wasn't sure if he should be headed to Larne as an FBI agent retrieving a fugitive or as a Peter helping a friend. He was less sure if he should be going as Peter. He'd briefed Hughes, who was willing to cover the absence of the three for at least a week, without completing any reports for their expenditures, IDs or anything else required. Peter still felt someone inside the Bureau was passing information; he just didn't know who.

Peter's phone started chirping and vibrating, almost indignantly.

He raised an eyebrow to the text scrolled across the screen: "Birds now."

Before he could pocket the phone, it started again: "Now."

Then: "Urgent!"

"I get it Mozzie, I get it." Peter muttered to himself as the phone beckoned him a fourth time. The car jerked to an abrupt halt as the automatic breaking system engaged. One hundred and one reasons not to read text while driving: Number one, you are supposed to be driving; Number two, the text makes you want to drive through the vehicle in front of you.

At the next red light Peter reread the text from Sara: "Fwd:El. 42. Pls." And he thought Mozzie's short, cryptic texts were annoying.

The impromptu meeting with Mozzie now became even more pressing than flight arrangements and cover IDs. Peter turned left at the next light and made his way to Mozzie's favorite bird feeding location. There was of course the duck, squirrel, horse, swan, fish, and the more unusual, frog feeding, meeting locations. Mozzie really had an eclectic, if not eccentric, love of feeding all manner of things, even if it was disguised as a clandestine rendezvous.

As Peter approached the center seats of the square, a newspaper found its way into his left hand.

Peter exhaled deeply as he took his seat and flicked the newspaper open.

"You're providing props now?" he stated matter-of-fact into the sports section.

"Your sarcasm subverts the gravity of the situation." Mozzie's mouth barely moved.

"I'm a little pressed for time."

"Aren't we all." Mozzie looked everywhere and nowhere, as he scattered a handful of seed in front of him.

"Moz."

"Suit."

"Come on, Mozzie, you called the meet."

"I did."

"Fine. You have my undivided attention."

"You have something new?" Mozzie cocked his head slightly.

"Sara sent you the message too? Before me?" Peter crumpled the paper down and turned to Mozzie.

Mozzie grumbled, turning a tensed back to Peter. He crossed his arms, raised his head up in defiance, then turned angrily back to Peter. "For an FBI agent, your comprehension of, and utilization of, covert techniques is lackadaisical."

Peter squinted at the bespectacled, reclusive con man. He couldn't halt the wry smile that started to creep into existence. "Well if I'm lackadaisical, you're eristic. I'm also chronophobic."

"Pen."

Peter reached into his breast pocket.

"No. You use pen."

"Mozzie?"

"For the New York Times crossword. Where else would a suit learn big words."

"Yes, Moz, I use pen. I'm considering other uses for my pen right now too!" Peter's head bobbed up and down with a near-murderous smile in accompaniment.

"Sara got another message?" Mozzie had obviously decided not to pursue the convoluted war of words. The seriousness had returned.

"Yes. El, forty-two, please."

"Trust is still an issue. The forty-two, as four and two, numerical, no hyphen?"

"Just the number 42."

Mozzie shook his head, worry evident on his face. "I don't know what Neal's into this time."

"The help isn't just for him, is it?"

"It's definitely for two. With the please, he's pressed for time."

"When isn't he. Any idea who the for would be?"

Mozzie shook his head quietly. "Do you have IDs and covers done?"

Peter humphed a soft laugh. "Thanks, Mozzie."

"Oh. Oh, I wasn't offering."

"Yeah, I know, Mozzie, you weren't offering. Thanks anyway." Peter gave him a quick, reassuring pat on the arm. Then he scowled. "You didn't get a text from Sara, did you?"

Mozzie gave a quick shake no.

"So why the urgency?"

Mozzie regarded him with a seriousness Peter had never seen before. "Ireland was one site fronted for the location of the Gardner Art, supposedly as collateral for IRA endeavors. It's a little calmer there now but there's been some interesting chatter recently. My contact mentioned several pieces of art, a tie to New York ..." Mozzie paused. "... and a body that turned up 10 days ago, on the Craggan River. It didn't make the news, and has been kept all hush-hush. Word is, it's an IRA hit."

"You think this has to do with Neal?" Peter sounded incredulous.

Mozzie took the tone as an affront and scowled at Peter.

"I'd leave, save for the fact Neal has some skewed trust in you."

"My apologies, Mozzie." Peter really didn't want to get into more verbal sparring nor did he have the time. He fought the urge to check his watch and kept his attention fixed firmly on Mozzie.

"If I knew it had something to do with Neal, I'd say." Mozzie grumbled. After an uncomfortable silence, Mozzie finally continued. "One of the most volatile areas in Northern Ireland is in County Armagh. The IRA history there is referred to as the Troubles, 180-plus soldiers and police officers were killed over several decades. In the 1990s snipers killed 12 members of the security forces. The Gardner Heist occurred in 1990. Coincidence? The Craggan River runs through Armagh, near Crossmaglen where most of the trouble centered. Over the last month there's been rumors about old works of art and activity around one estate in Crossmaglen. People in the woods like they were searching for something ..."

"... Or someone." Peter finished.

Mozzie grew solemn.

Peter stated Mozzie's thoughts this time. "And we have no way of knowing when Neal sent the messages out, only that someone is sending them now." He paused, trying to keep the professional tone intact. "Is Larne close to this Crossmaglan?"

"Crossmaglen. In UK terms, no; in US terms, yes."

"In miles, not riddles."

"Hours would be more appropriate."

With Peter's dirty look Mozzie clarified his comments. "It's a small place, lots of little roads and villages, lots of stops and turns; it's more a matter of how long it takes to go from point to point than the actual distance. Larne to Crossmaglen is under 100 miles, so probably under 2 hours driving time. Close enough."

"You really think Neal's connected to this recent activity?"

Mozzie nodded slowly, his lips pursued together.

Peter closed his eyes, tipped his head down and let out a long breath. He startled slightly when Mozzie wrapped a hand around his forearm.

"You'll bring him home. Right?"

"We will." Peter tried to sound as reassuring as possible.

Mozzie held out a neatly folded paper, halved and then folded an unusual three times. Peter took it and tucked it into his inside breast pocket. He knew Mozzie would only chide him again for not following proper covert techniques if he opened the paper there. Mozzie ended his curiosity.

"Name and number, use it wisely." Mozzie stood then and brushed at the birdseed stuck to his sweater. "Don't trust anyone. Anyone. Cops or suits."

Peter should have been up and gone himself; instead he watched Mozzie's departure until the unusual, but incredibly loyal, friend of Neal's disappeared behind a hedgerow.

"I'll bring him home." Peter whispered the promise after the little man. The world suddenly seemed to slow around him—the colors and smells became intense; he could hear every sound, every footstep. He could smell the hotdogs from the vendor on the corner. Somewhere nearby children were playing. He could hear the wind rustling the leaves on the tall trees surrounding him. And somewhere, on a distant note, he was certain he could hear Neal's voice.

The chirping and vibration of his phone brought the world speeding in around him again; everything became a cacophony of sight and sounds and smells, everything that was New York.

"Burke."

"Everything's set, Peter." Diana's voice hummed through the phone. "Tickets, hotel, car—with GPS, but I pulled a map up too. It's all in an envelope on your desk. See ya soon."

"Thanks. See ya tomorrow night." Peter clicked the phone off as he slid into his car seat.

Peter made it to the office without further fanfare. He did however have a welcoming committee in the form of the young Agent Michaels, who stood anxiously outside of Peter's office. Peter had requested his transfer to their unit after the incident with Ruiz and Neal. The young man's honesty and attention to detail had also sparked Peter's interest.

"Have you been appointed to guard my office?" Peter smiled at Michaels as he entered his office.

Michaels wasn't yet used to the banter of a jelled team office and immediately broke into half-stuttered apologies.

"It's okay, come in."

Peter beckoned him to a chair but the young agent stood in front of Peter's desk.

"What have you got?" Peter motioned to the file Michaels was clutching.

"Umm. Umm."

Michaels stepped to the door, closed it and quickly stepped uncomfortably close to the side of Peter's desk. Peter leaned back in his chair a bit as Michaels sidled further around the desk. He spread the file out on the desk, moving photographs around so they were in some apparent order. He tapped his finger against one. Peter peered down at the rear door of the Zazze Club and looked up with a questioning shrug at Michaels.

"There." Michaels pointed at a vehicle just within the frame of the surveillance photograph.

"What?"

"I know you didn't ask but, but I, uh, with Neal, Mr. Caffrey, missing, I ..." Michaels stopped and caught his breath. Agent Burke had already promised him he wouldn't snap at him if he worked on something independently; all he had to do was apprise Burke of what he had been doing.

"Breathe."

Michaels jumped at the softly-spoken word. He looked sideways at Agent Burke, who was smiling calmly at him. Michaels took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I went over all the surveillance video from the Zazze Club hoping to find something. Here..." He pointed again. "This vehicle shows up on at least three occasions, once at the start, then just before Ne—, Mr. Caffrey, is taken there, and then two days later. On all three occasions Emile Zantele gets in the vehicle alone. No Maury Trenton. Which is really unusual, 'cause he doesn't go anywhere without Trenton. Anyway, I couldn't get a face or a plate number: it's like the driver knows he's being watched."

Michaels glanced at Peter, who was interested but obviously disappointed.

"At least not from our surveillance photographs. So ..." Michaels was bouncing on his feet. "... I started cross referencing the direction the vehicle traveled with nearby street cameras and found these." Michaels moved a couple of photographs over that showed a partial plate number and a fuzzy outline of a driver. "I kept moving back down the street until I got the full plate several blocks away. It was a rental; I couldn't find any connection between Zantele and the company name used to rent the vehicle. So, I went to the rental company, and lucked out because they keep the exact time a rental is picked up and have a 90-day rotating video feed of their parking lot. I got these." Michaels pulled three photographs from his file folder.

Peter gaped. "You could have saved some time and started with these."

"Yes, sir." Michael gulped, suddenly finding his feet interesting, "But, I, you, you, would have asked all the questions I just answered, wouldn't you? Umm, umm. You'd want me to link Agent Roberts and prove why I made the connection to Zantele?"

"Yes. Yes, I would have, Aaron. Thanks, you did good work."

"Do you think Agent Roberts was involved with Mr. Caffrey's disappearance?" Michaels ventured.

"It's a good possibility." Peter tsked. "Neal didn't trust him. I should have listened."

Michaels fidgeted uncomfortably. Peter looked him over. He always looked slightly disheveled, nervous but intense; his eyes glinted like a little kid's anytime he was asked his opinion. Peter smiled at him.

"Michaels, I'm gonna be away for several days; can I rely on you to follow this up? Do more checks on the company that rented the vehicle out and quietly check into Roberts? Work, finances, friends— anything and everything. This is my text and cell number; if you think I should get an update, don't hesitate to call. Understand?"

Michaels shook his head rapidly in a yes. Peter scooped up all the photographs and the file, still firmly gripped by Michaels, patted the young man on the shoulder and followed him out the door. He headed towards Hughes' office and soon had his boss apprised of Michaels' efforts.

"He never struck me as the type. Always seemed like the consummate agent in every respect." Hughes sighed. "Ah, maybe I'm just getting old; I never expected the things Caffrey did either. Well, at least not the good stuff. Michaels is going to keep digging. I'll see what I can find. You think you'll find Caffrey in Ireland?"

"I do." Peter checked his watch. "I'll keep you posted."

Peter grabbed his kit bag from his vehicle, checked his tickets one last time and headed for the south exit. A taxi ride brought him to Midtown Manhattan. He walked the few remaining blocks to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, stopping twice to check for anyone following. He purchased a ticket on New Jersey bus 161 and sat back for the start-stop bustle of the ride. Neal would have argued it was like driving with Peter anyway, with sudden stops as Peter's vehicle automatically tried to compensate for his distraction. The distraction, Peter would have argued, was all due to Neal in the first place. The discomfort over the 12-mile ride, however, afforded a high vantage point and constant opportunity to check for company. It also provided some much-needed time to review everything Diana and Jones had prepared for him. He was traveling as Mr. ... Mr. Fred Stone, from Cincinnati. He shivered; Fred F. Stone, he'd have a chat with Jones for that one as soon as they met up. He was getting a private jump to Boston and then a charter to Glasgow, Scotland, and then as Diana wrote, _'to the quaint fishing village of Cairnryan_.' Peter caught a glimpse of a plane landing. The bus bumped to a halt in front of the terminals at Teterboro Airport. It was time to get Neal and bring him home.

O O O

* * *

I just hope that Jeff Eastin doesn't paint Neal into a "bad guy" corner, (He keeps saying Neal was born bad - I think he needs a few years taking psych courses - I've seen bad, really bad - Neal does bad things; that doesn't make him intrinsically bad as a person.)


	22. Notes

**22 NOTES**

Thank you once again to Jeff Eastin and crew, and Matt Bomer and Tim DeKay for being so blissfully good. And thank you for letting us play with your Characters!

* * *

Previously. Peter is headed to Ireland with Diana and Jones to scoop Neal. They have no idea what he's fallen into. They have no idea that Roberts turned Neal over to Zantele and his thug Trenton. Nor do they have any idea what has happened over the last month or so. Vivid memories won't let some people rest. Especially tormented memories of brutality and fateful choices.

* * *

O O O

A fine drizzle drenched the ground, every blade of grass, every creature that ventured from shelter. Neal dug his hands deep into a navy-blue peacoat. He scrunched his shoulders up but still shivered, as the fog pushed the cool salt air of the North Sea along the coast. Beads of water dripped from matted wavelets of darkened hair. The drops flowed over the contours of Neal's face, caressing his neck, then surreptitiously soaking into his collar. He lifted his face to the gray skies, stealing every last second of his allotted hour in the small yard of the Larne Police Station.

"Time, Halden!" the irate guard hollered. "Now!"

The cold dampness penetrated into Neal's soppy, wet shoes, the blazer hung heavy on his shoulders and the soaked collar chafed at his neck. Reality was inevitable.

"You're a foolish man," the guard chided as they headed back towards Neal's cell.

Some sympathetic thread in the man's existence resulted in a quick stop for two towels and a request for a delivery of coffee and biscuits. Neal accepted them with a surprised nod of thanks. He spent the rest of the day drawing, feigning enjoyment at eating another mediocre dinner, reading, and then finally, folding a scandal-ridden British rag into a few basic origami tessellations. His eyes grew heavy but he didn't want to sleep, he didn't want to dream, to wake in a cold sweat, disoriented and alone. Alas, the darkness prevailed.

_A blue silk scarf with small silver flowers - Forget-me-nots - delicately embroidered at one end, wound through his fingers. It fluttered in the wind, then slipped free and drifted listlessly away on the breeze. Neal grasped at the fine fabric but the wind teased and mocked, never allowing him to touch the soft silk again. The scarf danced through chestnut brown hair and highlighted azure blue eyes. Eyes that beckoned him forward, bright and intense, like fire burning into his flesh, filling the air with acrid fumes and consuming his very being. 'Kate. Kate!' Strong arms held him down. A voice repeated over and over to stay. Then a voice, distant, fleeting. Peter's voice telling him to breathe, to breathe and move. Another voice, aggressive and cold, boomed into his ear..._

* * *

_"Move!" Maury Trenton slammed a hand into Neal's back, spilling him forward until his shins collided with the metal stairs of the Cessna Sovereign. He groaned as Trenton brought him roughly to his feet._

_"Maury!" Emile Zantele's voice cut through the air. "I don't need you bringing any unwanted attention. Get him on the plane."_

_Trenton's grip tightened and a low guttural sound rumbled through him. He dragged Neal onto the plane and shoved him face first into a rear bulkhead. The nick Zantele had given Neal on his right cheek nearly two weeks prior reopened. As he bounced back, Trenton rammed him into the bulkhead again, only this time he drove a fist into his kidneys, once, twice. Neal's eyes rolled. He closed them tight. All he could do was bear whatever 'punishment' Trenton meted out._

_Roberts steadied himself. He found Zantele's cold allowance of the brutality distasteful and unnerving. The current situation afforded little opportunity to intercede on Caffrey's behalf. Nonetheless, the scowl he gave Zantele conveyed enough that Zantele, with utter detachment, ordered Trenton not to use fists and to keep their 'package' looking reasonably intact. Zantele then gestured to one of the six cabin seats, which placed Roberts' back to Caffrey. He could still hear each blow, each agonizing gasp for breath, each gritted groan of pain. Zantele sat across from him, sipping his scotch, a sadistic smirk evident over the rim of his glass tumbler. Roberts determined at that point that Zantele was nothing more than a spoiled, gutless, egotistical bastard and the sooner a bullet entered his skull the better._

_Trenton soon came to join them. He thumped into his seat, flexed his right hand a couple of times, then reached across them to grab a tumbler and the bottle of scotch. Roberts had also come to realize Trenton's connection to Zantele ran deeper than employee-employer, something for future reference._

_More than an hour into the flight Roberts managed a glance back at Caffrey. He had slumped to the floor with both arms crossed over his knees and his head cradled between them. His breathing seemed tense. Roberts turned back to Zantele, who was occupied with his laptop._

_"You don't mind if I check our 'package'?" Roberts grumbled, his sarcasm only slightly veiled._

_Zantele never lifted his eyes from his laptop and gestured a yes with an 'I couldn't care less' flick of his hand. Trenton, who was half asleep, briefly opened one eye as Roberts rose, then shrugged further into his seat, effectively pushing it into a reclined position._

_Neal flinched when Roberts tapped a cold bottle of water against his arms. Roberts opened the bottle and pressed it into Neal's left hand._

_"Here," Roberts insisted._

_Neal brought his head up, and peered at Roberts through a tangled mat of hair. He shuddered, then wrapped shaky fingers around the proffered bottle of water._

_"You all right?"_

_Neal stared at Roberts; a painful chortle of laughter crossed his lip._

_"Right." Roberts sighed and stepped away._

_He returned moments later with a small first aid kit and crouched down in front of Neal. Neal tensed and jerked his head back when Roberts tried to dab the dried blood from the cut on his face. A steady gaze and hands raised calmly to show no-harm-intended finally resulted in an uneasy compliance from Neal. Roberts noted the controlled tense breathing and slight tremble in the young man. He applied suture strips across the cut, then pushed Neal's chin sideways to get a better look at the swelling down his face. Neal's eyes never left his. They held no fear, just the steady contemplation of a cat waiting for the precise moment to pounce. Roberts noted the fierce redness across Neal's right ear and realized Trenton had likely landed numerous open-handed blows up the side of his head. Roberts popped the top off a bottle of acetaminophen and held three tablets out. He waited patiently until Neal opened a hand for the pills, tossed them back and gulped a mouthful of water down with them._

_"Happy now?" Neal raised a snarky eyebrow at Roberts._

_"Shit. Ya never stop, do ya?"_

_Roberts stood, grabbed Neal's arm and yanked him up onto unsteady legs. He walked him half backwards to the nearest seat, and to Neal's apparent surprise, eased him down into it. Neal regarded him even more cautiously then. Roberts found a couple of chemical ice packs and plunked them into Neal's lap. He steadied himself as the plane bucked and pitched over the Atlantic. He gave Neal one last glare of warning to mind himself and then found the bar at the front of the plane. He returned to his seat and absently rolled his glass of rye-and-ginger between his hands._

_"You're a regular f*ing Florence Nightingale." Trenton sneered without lifting his head or opening his eyes._

_Roberts offered no response but made another mental note that Trenton's disinterest masked an awareness of his surroundings. Roberts grabbed a couple more subtle glances back at Caffrey, who now seemed to be sleeping with his head tucked against one of the ice packs._

_As the flight neared its destination, Zantele bumped Trenton with his foot and nodded in Caffrey's direction._

_"Get him ready."_

_Trenton stretched and flexed his sizable frame. Roberts was a good size himself but Trenton outweighed him by at least sixty or more pounds and stood a good two inches taller. Trenton strode quickly up to Neal, locked onto a handful of hair and wrenched him out of his seat. Neal had no response time. He flailed his arms until he finally caught onto Trenton's forearm in an effort to balance himself and reduce some of the pain. His legs unfortunately faltered and brought him to his knees. Trenton twisted Neal's head up, his face menacingly close to Neal's, and growled for him to get up. Neal scrambled to his feet with Trenton now firmly grasping the scruff of his neck. He shoved Neal into the rear storage area and slammed the door shut._

_Roberts could hear a muffled derisive appeal from Neal and another couple of hard hits from Trenton._

_"Is this necessary?" Roberts ground at Zantele._

_Zantele blinked up casually from his laptop. "Really?"_

_"I'd like our 'package' to arrive to the satisfaction of our client," Roberts admonished. "I've invested time and effort, not to mention my career, in this."_

_Zantele rolled his eyes. "Fine, you get him ready."_

_Roberts resisted the urge to increase his pace, knowing full well Zantele watched his every move. He reached the storage area as Trenton grasped Neal by the throat, his thumb driving painfully up into his jaw. Trenton had Neal's left arm twisted behind him and pressed his body uncomfortably into Neal._

_"Get out!" Trenton spat the words at Roberts._

_"I'll look after him from here." Roberts kept the order low-key._

_Trenton glowered at Roberts, then pressed hard into Neal and hissed something into his ear._

_Neal closed his eyes tight and fought to keep still, his breaths coming in shaky rasps. Trenton stepped back, releasing Neal, then rammed two hands into Neal's shoulders, thumping him hard into a bulkhead._

_"He's all yours."_

_Trenton shoved past Roberts, who managed to grab Neal before he tilted forward. Roberts held him against the bulkhead while Neal gasped for breath. He opened and closed his eyes several times, rolling and blinking them until they focused on Roberts. He bit his bottom lip as his body shuddered in a shaky, uncontrollable spasm._

_"I'd ask if you were all right but I'm not sure what answer I'd get."_

_Neal coughed a small laugh, his lips barely registering a faint smile. "Now what?"_

_"Landing, customs, a drive through the countryside, and then, ya get to meet the client."_

_Neal wet his lips and pursed them together into a forced smile._

_"We can't take ya through customs in TEB Aero coveralls though."_

_Roberts shoved a kit bag at Neal. "Ya know the drill."_

_"And you're watching, just so I don't get in any trouble." Neal smirked._

_"Ya'd sooner Trenton?"_

_Neal stripped, watching Roberts watching him._

_"Zantele," Neal answered Roberts' questioning glances. The welts had died down leaving faded brown bands of bruising from Neal's waist to thighs. "Nearly two weeks ago with a riding crop." He managed a grin at the obvious discomfort he had caused Roberts. "The rest is courtesy of Maury Trenton. I don't think he completely understands what 'no fists' means." Neal rubbed at his ribs and winced. The yellowing of old bruises midriff mixed with the purple and red of the recent blows that extended from his left side fully around to his back. Both biceps held bluish purple marks, where fingers had dug deeply into muscle. The fierce red marks around the back of his neck indicated Trenton's very deliberate intent, not just to control, but to inflict pain wherever possible._

_"Sorry."_

_"Yeah." Neal huffed quietly._

_It wasn't like Roberts had turned him over to two guys who'd persisted in beating him at every opportunity over the last two weeks. Nooo. nothing like that. Roberts wasn't sure at what point he started to regret having to pull Caffrey into this mess. He wasn't sure at what point he started liking the young con man, or at what point he started feeling some need to afford him a certain protection. He steadily was coming to realize why Agent Burke liked Caffrey—charming, intelligent, astute, and underlying the obvious, a resilience that Roberts couldn't help but admire._

_Neal finished buttoning his dress shirt and slipped the casual suit jacket on. He shrugged an all done at Roberts. Roberts brought him back to his seat and returned to his own. He shook his head in frustration when Trenton sneered into his face and rose with exaggerated purpose from his seat. Trenton however stepped aside for Zantele and then slipped into the vacated seat across from Roberts._

_Zantele grabbed a bottle of scotch, poured a glass, and stepped towards Caffrey. He stopped, and without turning, gloated to Roberts that this was his show. Zantele apparently wasn't finished with 'getting Neal ready'._

_Caffrey held himself in check, anticipating Zantele's less-than-pleasant intentions. Zantele positioned the tumbler of scotch on the window table next to Caffrey. He yanked Caffrey's black tie loose and flipped the top button of his shirt open. And then, with the expertise of someone well-practiced, he backhanded Neal smartly across the face, snapping his head sharply and causing a flow of blood from his nose. Neal flexed his jaw and turned back to face Zantele. He dug his fingers into the arms of his seat, his eyes fixed hesitantly on Zantele. He flinched when Zantele reached towards him but the man only adjusted his collar._

_"Better." Zantele cooed, his hand cupping his chin, while regarding Neal as though pleased with some flower arrangement he had just completed. "Drink."_

_Neal's eyes moved to the glass extended to him, then slowly back to Zantele. A slim line of blood snaked down Neal's face, leaving its metallic taste on his lips, before splattering onto his crisp white shirt._

_"It wasn't an offer."_

_Neal took the glass, tossed its contents forcefully back, and handed the glass to Zantele._

_Zantele clenched his teeth, then gave Neal a ridiculously-pleasant smile. He refilled the glass and paused to watch a wisp of blood swirling in with the scotch. He held the glass out to Neal, who took it without hesitation and downed the contents. If nothing else, Roberts thought, as he watched the process, the liquor might dull some of Neal's pain._

_Zantele refilled the glass, cocked his head at Neal, then set the glass down. He located a white linen hand towel in a side compartment and dipped it into the scotch. Neal closed his eyes and shivered when Zantele latched onto his chin and brought his face up. He wiped the blood from Neal's face like a parent would an errant child with chocolate ice cream dribbled down him. Roberts noted Neal seemed more distressed by Zantele's attention to ensuring the blood was cleaned off than being smacked across the face. He shivered uncontrollably, his breaths were short and his eyes half closed. When Zantele seemed satisfied with his efforts, he pushed the towel into Neal's hand and pressed it to his nose. He again passed the glass to Neal._

_Neal emptied half the glass and held it on his knee._

_Zantele huffed. He topped the glass up and nodded at Neal to drink. As the glass touched Neal's lips, Zantele bumped the bottom of it, effectively spilling some of the contents down Neal's chin and neck and clothing. Neal gritted his teeth but didn't appear overly surprised by Zantele's actions. Neal started to wipe the liquid from his chin and neck with the bloodied towel, only to have it snatched away by Zantele._

_"We don't want to spoil the effect now, do we, Mr. Caffrey?"_

_"Course not." Neal gave a compliant tip of his left hand, tossed the remainder of scotch back and held the glass up for another refill._

_Zantele filled the glass a fifth time before heading back to Trenton's vacated seat. Roberts gawked at him, not entirely sure of the exchange between him and Caffrey. Zantele cleaned his hands with the sanitizer Trenton passed him. He adjusted the rings on his fingers, stretched, and casually slipped his seatbelt on in preparation for landing. He gave Roberts no response to the continued stare, save for indicating that he too may want to put his seat belt on._

_The landing at the Lille-Lesquin Airport was uneventful._

_Zantele had ground a single warning out to Neal before departing the plane. He placed the blood of anyone who Neal attempted to alert firmly on Neal's hands._

_At customs, the purpose of Zantele's actions on the plane were soon apparent._

_Neal provided a distraction._

_Zantele repeatedly apologized to the customs agents for his young friend's drunkenness. He unsuccessfully tried to straighten Neal's tie. He cupped Neal's face sympathetically and explained to the agent that turbulence and liquor had resulted in a nasty fall just prior to landing._

_Neal compliantly hung off Trenton's shoulder, blissfully intoxicated. Roberts was never sure if he was entirely drunk or playing the part. Neal waved a cheerful hand at the customs agent, half falling into the man when asked for his passport. The agent wrinkled his nose and propped Neal back onto Trenton's shoulder._

_French Customs and airports—with privately-hired security officers—can, however, be a dicey affair at the best of times. To the dismay of Zantele, one of the security officers zeroed in on Caffrey as a perfect candidate for, of all things, a strip search. Neal swayed and walked sideways, even with two officers escorting him through to a private room. He turned at the last moment and twinkled his fingers in a gleeful 'bye' to Zantele. After an uncomfortably-tense fifteen minutes, they re-emerged._

_Neal babbled away at both men in French, the conversation obviously friendly, and apparently also humorous, as both officers fought to maintain a professional demeanor. Neal stopped, suddenly realizing he no longer had a private audience, and sauntered, albeit with a somewhat-wobbly determination, up to Roberts and poked him in the shoulder._

_"You. You keep count ... member," he slurred into Roberts face. _

_"Four times." He waved four fingers at Roberts for emphasis. Then squinted at them, as if ensuring he actually was holding up four fingers. "Yup, four taday. Dun forget." _

_He started to poke Roberts again but instead made a fumbling grab for his opposite shoulder._

_Roberts clutched at Neal. He managed to grab hold of Neal's jacket with his left hand, and provide some halt to Neal's forward momentum with his right hand firmly pressed into his chest. Neal somehow managed to miss Roberts entirely as he twisted side on and retched violently onto the concrete floor. And, unintentionally of course, onto the shoes of one very pissed off Maury Trenton._

_Neal held up a hand to wave off the two security officers. He coughed and faltered in his French but managed enough broken words to get a snicker from the two. Roberts straightened him up and rolled his eyes at the unfocused, cocky sparkle in Neal's eyes. Fool._

_With Neal's 'antics', they, along with their cargo, cleared customs. Terrorists, illegal immigrants and unpaid tariffs were of greater concern than the drunken nouveau riche who frequented Europe._

_Their luggage and cargo had already been loaded into a waiting vehicle. Given the hour, they made a short trip to a nearby hotel. Roberts kept a wary eye on Trenton; he expected the man to lash out uncontrollably at Caffrey at any moment. They, however, settled into a two-room suite without incident, save of course for Caffrey waving four fingers at Roberts triumphantly. This after he had been stripped yet again and dumped under a cold shower._

_They boarded a vehicle shuttle for the Eurotunnel early the next day, breezing through customs and the Chunnel. Roberts drove at the request of Zantele, who provided direction from the front passenger seat. Caffrey sat quietly, somber in the rear seat next to Trenton. His hands clasped together, he seemed transfixed by his own thumbs tapping together in a nervous tempo. Trenton too was unnervingly quiet, until they exited onto the M20 London-bound._

_Trenton ground Caffrey's hands together in a vise-like grip, demanding that he stop the incessant tapping. Roberts couldn't fathom why somewhere in Neal's existence he was compelled to antagonize the bulls. He drove lances and barbs, and taunted with sweeping red flags. In Trenton, he found a Brahma bull, nasty and entirely unpredictable, the bane of any toreador._

_Caffrey raised his unblinking eyes to Trenton and grizzled an "Oowww" with a perfected childish simper._

_The red cape unfurled with a dramatic sweep. Trenton snorted. He gaffed onto Neal, rammed him to the vehicle floor and stomped his right foot repeatedly into Neal's shoulder and chest. He only ceased the deluge when Roberts veered erratically off the road and brought the vehicle to a screeching halt. Roberts was out of the vehicle and dragging Trenton off Neal before the actions registered with anyone._

_"Mother of God," Roberts roared at Trenton. "Ya kill the man before we get ta—"_

_Trenton's fist caught Roberts squarely in the jaw, knocking him backwards into the ditch._

Agent Bob Roberts sat up with a jolt. He rubbed at his jaw, momentarily disoriented. Sweat beaded and ran aimlessly off his forehead. It was no longer from the fever that had burned through him for several days, but from the convergence of disconnected thoughts, regrets and dreams, exacting an exhausting toll with their relentless barrage into his consciousness. He freed the remaining tangled sheet from his body and struggled to bring himself to a reclined position in the bed. His right thigh throbbed, the thrashing and tossing on his part wasn't hastening the healing process. Unfortunately, he knew the process would be restarted once the bullet imbedded in his leg was removed. The continued pain convinced him the small caliber shot from the antique pistol had very likely found its mark in his femur—not enough to fracture anything but certainly enough to extend the pain well beyond a flesh wound.

Roberts surveyed the small room, his sanctuary for more than a week now. Thick wooden beams rose up from the plank floor. Creamy white plaster flowed over the uneven surface between each beam. The holes from woodworm, the hammered-in tenons and numerous bumps and dings added to the old world charm of beams that were at least three centuries old. Windows sat deep and low into the eaves, which allowed a view of the mist-shrouded cottage garden surrounding the house but nothing beyond it. They were framed by lacy white curtains with a cheerful pink rose pattern. Roberts' eyes finally came to rest on a few papers scattered across the floor. He reached down awkwardly to scoop them up.

The first two weeks after his arrival in Ireland had been a tumultuous roller coaster ride. He had more revelations and even more unanswered questions spinning in his head than he desired, and finally resorted to making harried notes to himself when he woke from one of his nightmarish dreams. They now floated across the ragged pages in unintelligible scribbles. He had deciphered some but other memories were indelibly etched on his mind and required no notes.


	23. Trips

**23 TRIPS**

* * *

Peter settled himself into the comforts of his room in the "Guest House" in Cairnryan. It was modern in every respect, except of course for odd-shaped plugs that didn't allow him to use any of his chargers, not for his laptop, nor cell, nor electric shaver. To his dismay, he'd also discovered British television was vastly different from American television, with not a single ball game in sight, and even though it involved a bat and ball, cricket didn't qualify as a ball game for Peter, and what the hell was a "Wombles Reunion."

Peter finally opted for the view outside of his window. Diana's _quaint fishing village of Cairnryan_ was in fact a bustling seaport with a major ferry terminal to Ireland. Peter positioned his chair for the optimum view of the harbor, propped his feet up on the coffee table and cracked open one of the beers he'd purchased at Duty Free, something he normally wouldn't have done but having to wait for Diana and Jones to contact Neal left him antsy. Neal had a knack for turning simple into complicated.

With Neal's cryptic texts, Mozzie's anguished fretting, the missing Rembrandt, and Roberts and Zantele co-conspirators in who-knew-what, Peter had traveled under the assumed name of Fred F. Stone. He really was going to have to take that one up with Jones. He'd also determined that sending Diana and Jones in undercover for initial contact would allow him leeway if he had to make an appearance as himself. Now all he had to do was wait. Peter didn't like waiting.

* * *

Diana and Jones had no difficulty finding the Larne Police Station. A local stated there was no way they could miss it. With a couched animosity, he pointed out it was one of the only police stations left with gates and barbed wire.

Diana entered the police station alone, while Jones remained in their rented vehicle. The fewer people in play the more options they had at a later point if necessary. Diana introduced herself to the young woman at the front desk, who immediately sent for the senior detective responsible. She felt she was all too swiftly ushered into the man's office but he offered no explanation. She explained that she had finally tracked her friend's last known whereabouts to Northern Ireland, after receiving a garbled message that he'd lost all his ID and cash. She hadn't heard from him since and hoped they could help her. The detective looked at the photographs and all the documents she had brought.

Diana soon felt like she was being subtly grilled by the senior detective. His questions no longer fit the standard missing-person profile questions. They had distinctly changed to personal details. How she knew him? Why was he in Northern Ireland? Was he traveling elsewhere? Had he been there before? Was he meeting anyone? Exactly how well did she know Nicholas Halden?

Without knowing what Neal had already told them she provided the minimum of detail, sticking to the information needed for a missing person and what little they had on their profile of Neal's alias of Nicholas Halden. She left out 'gambler' and 'money launderer'. She answered a few of the more probing questions politely but then let her tone turn to indignation, concern and frustration. She asked in a higher pitch if they knew where Nicholas was, demanding to know what was happening. Then she suddenly turned it to anguish, dropping her face in her hands and half weeping, "Oh, God, he's dead, isn't he?"

She broke him. It was supposed to work the other way; he was supposed to be getting info from her about a man he suspected of having IRA connections. Instead he quickly confirmed Halden was there and offered a hasty apology.

Diana had become increasingly concerned the detective may have serious legal grounds for keeping Neal, ones that would be difficult to work around. Ones that might require direct FBI involvement, and it wouldn't surprise her with Neal that it could all lead to an international incident. She refrained from the sudden desire to roll her eyes; instead Diana opted for her own version of the _Neal Caffrey misdirect_. Calming a distraught woman was one thing, calming a distraught, irate woman was another. Diana let the detective know full well what she thought of his treatment of her so far. If he treated her like this, how were they treating her friend? Should she call the consulate? The media? The Human Rights Council?

After some spluttering, and a meager apology, the senior detective invited her to remain in his office until all the paperwork was completed. Approximately two hours later Diana was ushered into an interview room. She sat, allowing worry and anxiety to exude from her—no point in ruining the effect she'd created. Moments later she was presented with Nicholas Halden.

Neal hugged Diana with all the passion of a long-lost love. "I was starting to worry I'd be eating potatoes and boiled cabbage the rest of my life," he had quipped at the senior detective. Who grunted and scowled at Neal's slur. Diana provided a half-choked-with-emotion laugh, an arm still wrapped protectively around Neal. She'd kept her arm around him, in part to keep up the cover, but also because once she'd placed her arm around him, she had noted a slight tremble and a sense of vulnerability.

"Are we finished here?" Diana asked politely with a hint of indignation.

"Technically, all the paperwork isn't complete."

The detective grumbled something as he caught the reproachful crossing of Diana's arms.

"Ummm, however, seeing as you are here to collect Mr. Halden and appear to have every intention of leaving the United Kingdom, the pending deportation order will be forwarded to Mr. Halden." He continued in an officious tone, "Mr. Halden, the order will be held on record. _Section 362 and 363 of the act prohibits you re-entering the country as the Secretary of State deems your deportation to be conducive to the public good_." He paused, and smiled pompously at Neal. "In other words get out and stay out." He flipped the passport Diana had brought for Nicholas Halden onto the interview table and traipsed away without another word.

Diana scooped the passport up and latched onto Neal. She propelled him out the room, past the receptionist, through a secured door, into their vehicle and out the front gates of the Larne Police Station before he had time to utter any annoying, wrath-invoking, words.

"Hey, Jones." Neal patted him on the shoulder. "Nice ta see you. Take a left here."

Jones complied before registering Neal's sudden commandeering of their vehicle. He clamped the brakes on and pulled the vehicle over. "Nice to see you too, Neal. I think Diana's already called shotgun for navigation though." He thumbed to Diana, who sat behind Neal in the rear passenger seat, her arms crossed and a pleasant try-me-if-you-dare smile gracing her face.

"Ohhw. I just ... I thought..." He faltered. Concern, then an impending dread rippled across his face. "Where's Peter?"

Jones snickered. "Smart move, Caffrey; change the subject before Diana throttles you."

"Peter sent us to collect you, Neal. We had no idea what you'd got yourself into. Again," Diana advised bluntly.

"But he's here?"

"He's waiting for us in Cairnryan."

"Scotland?"

"Yeah," Diana chirped. "Then Glasgow and a direct flight to New York."

"We can't. We have to—"

"We have to get you out of the country," Diana warned. "_Get out. Stay out_. Did you forget so soon?"

Neal shook his head. "We can't. I can't." Neal was out of the car before Diana and Jones could blink.

"Damn, it Neal!" Diana yelled as she exited the car on his heels. She'd expected a foot chase but Neal stood there, teeth clenched, shaking his head in a 'no'.

"Neal, get back in the car," Jones ordered with a persuasive tone. "Now."

"Can't."

"Neal, please, we're making a scene," Diana implored. "I don't think the senior detective will let you out so easily second time round."

Neal looked plaintively back up the street, the radio tower of the police station still visible above the surrounding buildings. Both Jones and Diana held their positions, steady, not wanting to spook him into bolting. He finally brought his eyes back to them, contemplating them individually, searching for each one's breaking point. He hadn't brought them all the way here to run. He certainly wasn't too keen on going it alone again. One botched trip to England and a stay in a local detention center was enough. If he'd managed the trip, his cache near Oxford and contact at Gatwick would have garnered all he needed. He'd have been back to Ireland and out again before anyone was the wiser. He finally let out a long-held breath.

"Could we get some real food?" He cringed, then shrugged. "Talk?"

Diana rolled her eyes and held the car door open for him. "Get in."

Neal closed his eyes for a brief moment, dropped his head and slipped back into the car.

Jones remained standing beside the car, his hands resting on the door and frame. He watched and listened to Diana intently.

Diana had pulled out a cellphone, one of three she'd acquired at the airport in Glasgow.

"Peter. Diana... Yes we have him ... sorta ... no, no doesn't look too worse for wear... He's not exactly cooperating."

"What! ..." Peter's indignation echoed through the phone.

"... Says he can't. We have to do something... I don't know... We can but— Yes ...Yes ... I considered putting him in the trunk." Diana winked at Jones. "Yes, always complicated... Desperate, and worried... Peter, I think you need to be here... Yes... Thanks, we'll wait for your call."

"He's coming?"

Diana nodded a 'yes' at Jones and tucked in behind Neal. She put a hand on his shoulder, and caught her words about threatening to put him in the trunk. Neal sat with his hands in his lap, slowly rubbing the two bandaged fingers on his left hand. She really hadn't catalogued his appearance until now. His face was drawn, and tired circles sat under his eyes. His hair was longer, ragged, like he'd only run his hands through it to keep it in any type of order, and his voice lacked the charm and enthusiasm that usually encompassed everyone around him. He looked ... lost. She squeezed his shoulder gently.

"He's coming, Neal." Diana reassured.

"Sorry. Diana. Jones." Neal whispered.

Diana and Jones exchanged a concerned look. Then they headed towards the Larne ferry terminal to wait for Peter. They found a take-out and convinced Neal that he should eat, considering he was the one who suggested getting real food. He pointed out that fried food barely qualified as real but nonetheless ate. Finally, Diana received a quick call from Peter and gave him directions to where they were parked.

Peter pulled up behind them fifteen long minutes later. Neal swiveled around to see him exiting his car. With the sharp slam of the car door Neal shrunk back. Diana watched what little color there was drain from his face. Peter was beside their car in a few fast steps. He had the passenger door open and Neal out before the young con man could protest. Peter marched him back to his car, spun him around and demanded both his hands.

Neal blinked, unmoving.

"Until I have some answers, you're a fugitive. And you are NOT the one calling the shots. Hands."

Neal complied. He couldn't quell the tremors running through him as Peter ran a nylon police zip-tie around his wrists. Peter noticed. He also noted the bandaged fingers, hesitated a moment, then slowed his movements with the tie so as not to bump them. Then he wrenched the passenger door open, deposited Neal inside without another word, and strode back to Diana and Jones.

Neal kept a leery eye on Peter as he talked to Diana and Jones. They both gestured towards Neal, answered questions, and nodded in agreement to whatever Peter was saying. Peter kept his back to him, no chance of gaining any insight with facial expressions or catching a few lip-read words. Neal tensed as Peter returned to the car; not once had he looked at Neal on the way back nor when he got in the car. The tension remained palpable as Peter drove away from the terminal. Diana and Jones followed a short distance behind them.

"You gonna tell me where we're going?" Peter finally asked impatiently.

Neal shuddered and mumbled a direction.

"No, Neal. Where are we going?"

"Home," Neal whispered tentatively.

And for the first time in what seemed like forever, deep, warm brown eyes met achingly blue eyes. Those brown eyes locked on blue conveyed everything. Integrity, perseverance, courage, all tempered with compassion. Definitely apprehension, and the possibility of conciliation also swirled in those brown eyes. It wasn't the tempest Neal had feared. A glimmer of hope twinkled into blue eyes.

"Peter!" Neal broke the moment. "Left side."

Diana was also leaning on the horn behind them.

Peter jerked his car back into the left lane and glared at Neal.

Neal shrugged a 'what?' "I'd drive but..." He held up his hands.

"They're not coming off until we talk."

"Oh." Neal stared down at his zip-tied hands. "Better than duct tape."

Peter gave him a quizzical glance. "Special order. Soft edges. High breaking point. Very difficult to release."

Neal raised an eyebrow. The rest of the trip he held his hands firmly in his lap. Things were already tenuous at best, so slipping the ties he'd loosened reflexively the moment Peter strode away from the car would be a little brazen.

They had no opportunity to _really talk_.

Peter asked about his bandaged fingers and received a curt reply that they were broken. Attempts at other questions were met with similar short replies or evasive half answers. The answers Peter wanted required eye contact, and focus, and right now Peter needed to concentrate on the twists and turns and the insidious roundabouts, while constantly reminding himself to stay on the left-hand side of the road. They bypassed Belfast and continued south onto the A1. Peter was notably relieved once on the divided A1. Neal tried unsuccessfully to point a few landmarks out. Peter bluntly informed him they weren't there to sightsee. In reality Peter drank in the incredible beautiful countryside. Fields, hedgerows, dry-stacked stone fences, forests in the distance, bright yellow gorse and everywhere cottages, farm buildings, churches and ruins.

Eventually, they ended up on the B113 and then a small country lane close to a wooded, hilly area Neal informed him was Shanroe. They went down increasingly narrow lanes until they turned into a gravel driveway and up to a cottage Peter truly would have called _quaint_. The stone cottage was surrounded by a garden in full bloom that ran up to the woods, with a tall, overgrown hedgerow providing both shelter and privacy. Neal insisted they pull the cars into a small garage across from the cottage.

"Home?" Peter prompted.

Neal tipped his head slightly. "Close enough."

Peter sighed, "You're gonna have to start giving me details, if you expect this to work."

"Yup, but first thing first." Neal grinned and casually dropped the zip-tie into Peter's lap.

Peter shouldn't have been surprised. Battered, beaten, or dysphoric from what he'd been witnessing, Neal Caffrey couldn't stop being who, or what, he was: an incredibly-gifted, annoying con man.

"Come on," Neal pestered, popping his head back inside the car when Peter hadn't moved. Peter's eyes were still fixed on the zip-tie in his lap. "If you need to, you can put the zip-tie back on after."

Peter counted silently, while wringing the steering wheel. El had recommended he count before losing his temper with Neal or jumping to conclusions: _'look beyond the obvious'_.

Jones patted Neal on the back, "You really have a knack for pissing Peter off."

He steered Neal away from the car to stand at the entry to the garage with him and Diana. Diana's arms were crossed in frustration. Neal was thankful for that; she may well have strangled him otherwise. He knew she thought highly of Peter and disliked Neal treading on Peter's nerves. He opened his mouth to apologize, then thought better of it. Peter joined them moments later.

Peter draped his right arm across Neal, with a firm hand gripping his shoulder. Neal tensed and peered sideways at Peter, who stood imposingly close to him. Apprehension flooded into his eyes. He wanted Peter to understand. Providing that understanding, however, created a dilemma for Neal, in how to tell all while protecting those he needed to.

"Lead on." Peter gestured. Lead he might, but the slight jostle and squeeze to his shoulder reaffirmed Peter's words that Neal was_ not calling the shots._

They headed up the few steps to the cottage.

Neal entered without knocking and immediately called out, "Aisling!"

A young woman came around the corner. Her dark, auburn hair was pulled back in a soft ponytail, with numerous wisps falling across her face. She wore coveralls that were tucked into rubber boots, and a soft green t-shirt that accentuated aqua blue eyes. Almost the quintessential Irish lass. She dropped the cut flowers and clips she held and pressed into Neal.

Neal swept her up and around. He nestled his head into her shoulder, planting lingering kisses on her neck and cheek, refusing to end the embrace. Likewise she clung to him, tightening her arms around him with each kiss. Finally, Neal released her and tucked wayward strands of hair gently behind her ears. He held her face up to his, smiling the most radiant, open, honest smile Peter had ever seen on Neal.

"I thau'. I thau'..." She stammered, while wiping soft tears from her eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have brought you into this."

"No y' should n'." She mocked and swatted at his chest.

"Forgive me?"

Neal's forlorn voice only elicited a joyous giggle from the girl. "Y'r a foolish mun. Y'jus goin' stand ther, or introduce me t' y'r frien's."

Neal wheeled around, as though he should have been surprised to see anyone standing there. He wove his finger between the young woman's and squeezed tight.

"Ummm..."

Peter quickly realized Neal had no idea what cover names they were using. He stepped forward and politely took the young woman's free hand. "Fre—"

"No. Peter. Aisling, this is Peter. The man I told you about. Jo... Clinton and Diana."

A thud and clatter brought everyone's attention around. Peter, Jones and Diana immediately assumed defensive positions.

"It's okay. It's okay." Neal spread his arms out, his hands open, then disappeared through a doorway towards the noise.

"Caffrey! Shit, I thought ya were dead." Roberts boomed out. "Good ta see ya, bub."

Peter, Diana and Jones were through the door and watched as Roberts clapped Neal on the back, then leaned heavily onto him. Neal wrapped an arm around him, straining to keep the man steady.

"Lord!" Aisling scolded, "I told y' na t'be standin'."

She waved everyone aside with an air that confirmed this was her domain. She pulled the tipped chair in behind Roberts and with Neal's help settled Roberts into it.

Peter could only offer a quizzical shrug for Jones' and Diana's questioning glances. Peter had already apprised them of Roberts' apparent involvement with Zantele. The Neal Caffrey saga kept on expanding. Peter hoped he'd soon be able to paste the chaotic montage into some semblance of order.


	24. Findings

**24 FINDINGS**

Previously: Peter, Jones and Diana have flown to Ireland and have picked Neal up from the Larne Police Station. Naturally, Neal, being Neal, couldn't just simply head home with them. Nope. They instead travel south until landing at the cottage of a young woman, obviously well-known to Neal. A young woman who had spent over a week nursing Agent Bob Roberts through a gunshot wound. A young woman who didn't seem the least bit daunted about the arrival of Neal, Peter, Diana and Jones. Time to get some questions answered.

* * *

After surprised glances, some brief explanation, and several good cups of coffee, Peter settled into what Peter does best: he took control and went into full FBI mode, which started with a long 'chat' with Agent Bob Roberts.

_Dusk enveloped the countryside in a pallor of soft greens, as their vehicle rolled along an isolated country lane. Tall trees soon arched over the lane-way with their thick canopy, casting them into darkness. Finally, two ornate lights, set atop stone columns, came into view. The columns bordered a large wrought-iron gate. Trenton and Zantele exited the vehicle looking unsure about the location. Roberts came to stand beside them._

_"You got the right place?" he queried._

_"Yes."_

_Neal's softly-spoken answer caused surprised heads to snap around. He brushed past the three men and located a panel flush-mounted into one of the stone columns, flipped it open and pressed a keypad. The gate clicked open and swung wide for their entry. Neal strode through the gates like he owned the place. He may not have owned it but he'd been through those gates many times before._

_He looked upwards and spun on his heels as he walked. "You haven't changed the bloody key code after all these years!"_

_Mouths gaped behind him. A push and nod from Zantele sent Trenton after Caffrey, with Roberts following closely. They didn't get far before two armed men appeared from nowhere and blocked Trenton and Roberts. They seemed unperturbed by Neal's presence._

_"They're with me," he commented flatly._

_The two men eyed each other, spoke through headsets and disappeared back into the night. Caffrey continued up the graveled driveway, veered left onto a cobbled path and through a tall hedgerow. Trenton and Roberts were both too thrown off to pay any regard to Neal's suggestion that they could drive up to the house with Zantele. They rounded a set of sculpted evergreens and laid eyes on a stone and brick house nestled into the trees. A large expanse of manicured lawn sprawled before it._

_Neal knew precisely where he was going, his gait crisp for someone who had enjoyed an extremely uncomfortable ride from London to Northern Ireland on the floor of their vehicle. Zantele had moved Roberts into the back with Neal. Roberts had been out nearly five minutes; when he came to he was thankful for once Zantele had used some restraint with Neal. Zantele had of course opened the rear door, wrenched Neal's head at a sharp angle, until their eyes met, and threatened to move Trenton into the back again if he so much as moved or opened his mouth. Now the man was striding up to the large estate house without apparent concern for any repercussions._

_Neal bounded up a wide set of stone steps and flung open a set of French garden doors. He stepped into the ostentatious parlor. The walls held tapestries, paintings and the mounted heads of several long-dead trophy kills. Ornate chairs and tables clustered along the walls. Several large leather chairs and and a couch surrounded a crackling fire within a massive, carved-limestone hearth._

_"Where are you?" Neal demand into the depths of the house._

_When he noted an older man, who had entered from a wide passageway on the far side, he started into a rant as to 'Why he was brought here? What were they trying to do? Couldn't they have asked instead of having him dragged across the Atlantic by two sadistic pricks?' The shocked, utterly appalled gaure of the older man stopped Neal in his tracks mid-way across the room, and steps from the man. Neal suddenly took a deep, raspy breath and virtually crumpled in the man's arms. Thick muscular arms enveloped him, drawing him in until the man held Neal firmly in his arms; he cradled Neal's head and neck with a broad hand._

_Roberts wasn't sure if it was sheer exhaustion or the shock at being flung into an unexpected reunion, or the cumulation of both, but Caffrey was obviously distraught. He had buried his head into the man's shoulder, he shuddered with a couple of heavy rifts of breath, then shook in a rhythmic motion of sobs._

_The man kept repeating, "t's alrigh' boyo, t's alrigh'," in a thick Irish drawl. He stroked Neal's hair with a gentleness that sat in stark contrast to his stocky, rough build. The man stood near enough the same height as Neal, with broad shoulders, a little extra weight around the midsection and a face weathered by time and tide._

_Trenton and Roberts stood stunned, unprepared for the apparent family reunion unfolding before them. Zantele joined them moments later and they shared questioning glances. The two armed men, who had entered with Zantele, appeared entirely indifferent to the exchange between Caffrey and the older man. Their attention was firmly focused on Zantele, Trenton and Roberts, firearms only tipped slightly down and away. Positions held that effectively created protection for the older man._

_The older man finally pulled Neal back, while still holding him by the shoulders with firm hands._

_"Lemme 'ave a look't y'."_

_He held Neal's face between his hands. He wiped Neal's cheeks with two stubby thumbs and ran his hands over his hair several times with a gentle jostling of Neal's head._

_"Still thinaza rake."_

_Neal huffed a tearful laugh. An unsteady hand wiped back the remainder of the tears still tumbling down his cheeks._

_Then the older man's eyes iced over. "Y're a damn fool fur na lis'ening. An' all d'more lucky Ryan's 'way. Y' were warned."_

_"I was dragged." Neal's voice cracked._

_"How was I t'know y' were 'tached t'tha bloody paintin'."_

_"You didn't ask?"_

_"T'name didna matter." The older man was now angry, indignant at being questioned._

_"Still on the self-righteous mission?" Neal intoned sarcastically_

_"Still fightin' for wha's right." The reply was calm and blunt._

_"What's right! What's right. Blowing people up! Shooting people! Fighting over some sanctimonious independence! For what?" Neal's voice was bordering on hysterics._

_The older man's open hand caught Neal sharply across the face. He waved his hand menacingly. "Y' w're warned, fur good reason las' time y' were 'ere. Are y' ta thick ta understan'?"_

_Neal held a still-stinging cheek with his left hand. "It wasn't by choice!"_

_"t's always b' choice," the older man admonished. "If y' stayed 'way from trouble, y' woulna be 'n trouble."_

_"Well, I didden have anyone to keep me outta trouble," Neal retorted, then stepped back, obviously regretting the words the moment he uttered them._

_The older man glared at him, then slowly shook a finger at him. "I warned y' wha' woul' hapen if y' returned."_

_Neal swallowed hard and started slowly retreating, his head shaking an unsteady 'no'._

_"Y' broke y'r word but I'll na break mine."_

_"No... No... No, Uncle Max... No." Neal's words were soft and plaintive. He huffed shaky breaths in between the words. "It wasn't by ... I didn't, I... I didn't... I'll leave ... now. ... Please."_

_"Y'know t's ta late."_

_Neal mouthed words. He no longer retreated but stood with shoulders slumped, resolute. He closed his eyes and shook his head, repeating over and over, "I didn't. I didn't. I didn't." Until it was a soft chant._

_When the older man stepped towards Caffrey, Roberts was certain he was about to witness a brutal beating. He started to move forward, quickly halting as an MP5 sub-machine gun was leveled at his chest. He could do nothing but stand in agony, regretting his misguided need to resolve an outstanding art theft. A theft he'd spent much of his career investigating. Twice he'd come close. Twice his superiors had yanked their support at the last minute. Roberts had convinced himself he was justified in pursuing the last lead he received. The lead that had brought him to Zantele. The lead that had opened the door to not only one piece, but possibly all of the Gardner Art. The lead that allowed him to broker a deal with Zantele and drag Neal Caffrey back to an unknown history. Which now apparently left the young con man facing a tumultuous family reunion. Roberts glared around at Zantele and Trenton; both seemed equally perplexed by the sudden turn of events._

_Neal flinched when the older man grabbed him roughly. He half screeched the words then. "I didn't. Please don't... Please. I didn't... I kept my word."_

_To Roberts' surprise, the older man once again brought the younger man tightly into the folds of his arms. He cradled Neal's head into his shoulder, supporting nearly all his weight with a hand firmly across his back. Neal, exhausted both emotionally and physically, fought repeatedly to remain standing. His legs sagged and buckled, and he clung desperately to the older man. Unabashed sobs were muffled into his uncle's shoulder and neck, until they came in dry, harsh rasps, his body shaking and trembling uncontrollably._

_"Y' were warned, boy. God forgive me, y' were warned," he whispered over Neal's head, kissing the sweat-matted, dark hair. He stroked his fingers absently over Neal's hair before finally turning his attention to the three men standing dumbfounded in his living room._

_"Y'll stay 'til t'is mess is sorted." The cold, all-business tone jarred them out of their stupor._

_Zantele started to protest only to be shoved with the barrel of a Kalashnikov AK-47._

_"Dun in'erfer in wha's na yours," the man brandishing the rifle snarled._

"Just one moment." Peter raised a hand for Agent Roberts to pause. Peter had been listening intently to the man's reiteration of the events of the past 40-plus days but once again was distracted. Peter quickly opened the door of the cozy little room that Aisling referred to as a "snug".

Neal stepped back from the door with a start, then gazed innocently at Peter.

"Stop lurking at the door," Peter admonished.

Neal tucked his head back with his Neal-Caffrey-patented indignant, hurt look.

Peter hadn't seen that look for some time and stifled a laugh. "Yeah, I know, you're hurt I'd say such a thing."

"And I would never lurk," Neal assured Peter with a cocky grin. "I was listening."

Peter's astonishment with Neal's outright admission that he was listening brought sniggers of laughter from Diana and Jones. They had been watching Neal's fidgety rearrangement of everything in the country kitchen for the last 90 minutes. Their efforts to dissuade him from his impatient waltz around the room were futile.

Peter stepped around Neal, pulled out a kitchen chair and stood with his hands firmly on the back until Neal conceded.

Neal plunked himself in the chair and slunk down with his arms crossed.

Peter leaned over and spoke directly into Neal's right ear, "Stay."

Neal grimaced. He watched Peter disappear back into the snug and stared at the door relentlessly. It wasn't until Jones finally suggested that as gifted as Neal was he was pretty sure Neal wasn't likely to spontaneously develop x-ray vision or hearing that Neal caught himself and laughed with Jones and Diana.

Aisling, who had left her group of visitors to talk, returned from tending her garden with a basketful of veggies. She was miffed when Neal didn't immediately rise to help her prepare their 'tea'. Diana realized the slight and quietly filled her in, which resulted in joyous soft giggles from Aisling. Jones shrugged at Neal's dismay over the two women, who were exchanging hushed words and more giggles. Aisling eventually sauntered over to Neal, ruffled his hair affectionately and planted a playful kiss on his lips. She then presented him with a bouquet of carrots and informed him he could chop them, and then the spuds, as easily at the table as the kitchen counter. Jones' snicker resulted in his being pressed into service as well.

A flood of contentment briefly washed over Peter when he heard the laughter from the kitchen. His team, the best of his team, laughing and exchanging friendly banter. He hadn't admitted how much he'd missed that camaraderie.

Roberts continued.

_Things had remained civil with Max 'Foley'. They were relieved of their cellphones, smuggled firearms, and other goods, except for personal basics. They were not allowed to leave the estate, which rated more as a subtle, but well-secured, compound. They had access to nearly every inch of the estate. A few areas were locked, others patrolled by armed guards, and a solarium at the rear of the house on the third floor elicited raised barrels and harsh threats. Max Foley spoke to Zantele, Trenton and Roberts individually over several days, then pretty well ignored them other than asking if the food was okay._

_Roberts didn't see Neal for ten or more days; he thought the worst, until he heard a familiar laugh drifting across the expanse of lawn. He looked around to see Caffrey walking backwards in front of two armed men. He couldn't discern what they were saying. He later figured it was a broken Gaelic. Regardless, the men spoke with familiarity to Neal. They laughed, commented on whatever Neal was describing with his hands, and when Neal turned to reassess where he was headed, one guard patted him heartily on the back. When Neal noticed Roberts, he gave a slight lift of his hand before the three of them disappeared behind an outbuilding. Roberts never was sure if the men were protecting or securing Neal._

_Close to three weeks after their arrival, Roberts woke to a heated argument echoing through the building. He hadn't caught the start but apparently Ryan had arrived. Ryan, Caffrey and Foley ended up yelling and ranting for over an hour until there was a scuffle with Foley yelling for Ryan to get off of the boy. With Foley's heavy Irish brogue, Ryan's own accent and Neal transitioning into Gaelic with his uncle, Roberts only had a vague idea of the reasons behind the family fight._

_Ryan apparently had threatened to put a bullet in Neal if he ever laid eyes on him again. Rembrandt's 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee' was mentioned at least twice in regards to Ryan being reckless. Something about Ryan orchestrating everything. The scuffle resulted when Foley informed Ryan that he'd dishonored him._

_A day later they all met in one of the inner rooms of the house. It was a secure room well beyond having armed men at the two entries. The walls were of thick stone and windowless. When the doors closed the room's pressure increased and voices muted from soundproofing. They, and the room, were swept electronically. They were also frisked for good measure before entering the room._

_Foley occupied a comfortable, although ornate, oak and leather chair. Caffrey was already there too. He sat on a low bench, his feet propped in front of him and his hands pressed between his knees. He kept his head down until the third occupant of the room walked closer and kicked his feet. Caffrey reactively jerked his head up, meeting eyes with the man. They locked stares, until a shiver ran through Neal and he broke the contact. He bowed his head low, with the man looming over him and informing Neal he was 'fuken worthless.'_

_"Min' y'r words!" Foley barked at the man._

_The man, who never did introduce himself, but was no doubt Ryan, leaned closer to Neal and muttered, "W're na dun yet."_

_The tense exchange had confirmed for Roberts that the heated argument two nights before had not gone so well for Neal. He sported a good 'shiner' to his right eye and his bottom lip had been split open. The kid couldn't catch a break. Guilt welled up in Roberts but he knew any reaction on his part might endanger himself and possibly result in further trouble for Caffrey._

_The man stood up straight and rolled his shoulders back. He'd had his hands in his suit pockets the whole time he'd 'addressed' Neal; he removed them and popped the last button on his blazer open._

_"Le's get this done, then." Most of the Irish brogue dropped, and turned to a well-educated, elitist business tone. He remained standing, holding court while everyone else sat in the comfortably-upholstered chairs set around the room._

_"Mr. Trenton, I am not entirely certain of your business relation to Mr. Zantele and Mr. Roberts but I cun guarantee you, y'll be well looked after." The man nodded at him with a certain finality._

_"Mr. Roberts, your original terms will continue. Funds 'ave already been wired to the account number you provided. I will take it tha' given the nature of our business you will ensure everythin' remains confidential."_

_"Guaranteed. I wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize my retirement package," Roberts reassured with a broad smile._

_"Good. We have a few more days to complete everythin' here and I will arrange a clear flight wherever you wish ta go."_

_"Mr. Zantele, my apologies for the delay. I realize you are a busy mun but with the disturbance to y'r enterprises in the States, I hope you will accept your imposed vacation here as an unavoidable necessity. You will of course be well compensated for your investment." The man positioned himself closer to Zantele. "I believe you are an intelligent-enough mun to realize na't all of your requests can be met."_

_The set of Zantele's jaw conveyed all the hostility that had been building since their arrival. He clenched his fists, then flexed his fingers out, rapping them solidly onto the arms of the chair he occupied._

_"We 'ave no desire to complete any further transactions with y'rself, or any person or business affiliated with y'." The cold, icy finality of the man's voice was growing and so was Zantele's temper. Remarkably, he held it in check, whether as self-preservation or as arrogance that physical confrontation was beneath him._

_The man continued, "The Rembrandt is yours. It's more than served its purpose. That!" He waved an annoyed hand towards Caffrey, "That. Is not for the taking."_

_Zantele was on his feet, face to face with the man, a man that bore a strong resemblance to Caffrey. Lighter hair, a little taller, with a bigger frame, definitely several years older, and while the eyes and mouth were identical in shape and form, the eyes held a heartless chill and his mouth was set with an anger that would have been entirely foreign to Neal Caffrey._

_The man sighed with an entirely blasé huff of air. It was a wonder he hadn't flicked his hand at Zantele as though he was a fly buzzing irritatingly in his face._

_Trenton stood and placed a hand on Zantele's arm, drawing his ire. Zantele yanked his arm free and continued to glare at the man, breathing heavy and shaking with rage. Roberts didn't know at the time but Zantele had always fully intended on avenging his father's death. He held Caffrey and Agent Burke entirely responsible. He already considered the Rembrandt his; how could he be compensated with his own property?_

_The lack of response by the man to any of Zantele's posturing finally ended with Zantele stomping to the nearest door, and sarcastically thanking the man and Foley for their hospitality. He had to snap his fingers at Trenton to follow. Trenton, who had clearly determined the man held more authority over the situation than Zantele, tipped his head to him in deference, and obediently followed Zantele out the door._

_Roberts never saw Trenton after that point. He did however have one final encounter with Zantele._


	25. Bluebells

**25 BLUEBELLS**

PREVIOUSLY: Emile Zantele wants his Rembrandt back. Neal had stolen it in a type of bait-and-switch. He had it in his possession when a certain FBI agent brought him in for questioning. Neal's solution was to "hide" the painting among other works of art at the newly formed Art Crimes Unit of the FBI in New York. BUT others wanted the painting and the man that forged a remarkable copy of it. Neal ends up being taken to Northern Ireland, apparently to estranged family. Then lands himself in an Irish Detention Centre (jail). A cryptic text brings Peter, Diana and Jones to Ireland to "rescue" Neal. Neal however isn't quite ready to be rescued and needs to tie up some loose ends. One of those loose ends happens to be the man that kidnapped him—Agent Bob Roberts. Now Neal has taken everyone trekking across Northern Ireland and Peter is looking for answers. Answers about the stolen art. Answers about Neal's hidden past.

Peter has been interviewing Agent Roberts in a centuries-old cottage tucked into the woods. A cottage that belongs to a woman from Neal's past.

Enjoy

O O O

* * *

Aisling finally insisted that Roberts needed to take a break and get something to eat.

She looked at Peter disapprovingly. "An' when di' y' eat las' yourself?

"I ... uh..."

"Go. Y'r tea's set out."

She served Roberts his food in the snug so he could keep his leg propped up. She reassured Peter that he could continue talking after they ate their tea.

Peter was surprised how quickly he complied with the woman in front of him. The effervescent, youthful disposition of the young lady he'd met several hours ago cleverly disguised a very confident, self-assured young woman. He still didn't know her connection to Neal but he had a distinct feeling she'd be an incredibly positive influence in his life. Someone who wouldn't let him get away with a damn thing, while still somehow letting him be himself. Peter smiled; he pictured El's amusement with him, suggesting that he was starting to sound like he was screening potential girlfriends for Neal. He tsked at himself and turned to join everyone at the table in the large kitchen.

Neal watched him, appraising his mood, trying to discern what information Roberts had imparted from Peter's facial expressions. Peter's face remained neutral, while actually more verging on pleasant, which only succeeded in wrenching Neal's guts further.

Peter caught Jones' eye and indicated to Neal with a slight tip of his head. Before Jones could respond with his own slight nod back, Neal grumbled, "I didn't move. I'm right here." He waved a hand at Peter.

Peter raised an eyebrow at his friend's annoyance, "Could've locked you in the cellar."

"There isn't one."

"I'd have found something."

"Thoughtful."

Peter pursed his lips into a thoughtful smirk.

Neal blinked up at Peter, his own eyes twinkling with a casual smile, when the realization hit as to how he had missed the verbal sparring with Peter.

Peter, ever the gentleman, stepped to the end of the table and pulled a chair out for Aisling, then sat himself next to Neal. He bumped Neal's knee and gave the slightest of glances towards Aisling but received only an impish facial shrug from Neal.

The dinner Aisling had prepared, with the assistance of a couple of FBI agents and one CI, melted into a friendly conversation about the area, the cottage and Aisling's ability to transform fresh country food into a delectable, sumptuous feast. Peter prodded Neal a couple of more times but only got a soft 'no' shake of his head.

Eventually, the table was cleared and the suggestion made to get comfy in the living room around the small fire cheerfully crackling away in the hearth. Peter informed them that he still had more questions for Agent Roberts. He wasn't sure how long he'd be but Neal could stay right where he was seated. Peter was positive they hadn't eaten anything sour but Neal's expression certainly suggested otherwise. Aisling immediately picked up on the concerted twist to Neal's face.

"Agent Burke?"

"Peter."

"Peter, th'n. If I promise ta return 'im righ'ta this spot ..." She coyly patted Neal's shoulders. "... c'ud I take 'im f'r a walk ... roun' my garden?"

Peter tried. He really did, but darn it, with her tone and words, she'd stung Neal, while flirting with him and taunting Peter all at the same time. Peter managed a nod 'yes' with his effort to keep the grin from exploding off his face. This feisty young woman was rubbing off on him.

Peter headed back into the small cozy room, the snug, with Roberts.

_The agreement Zantele and Roberts had made was for delivering the artist behind the forged Rembrandt to Foley's organization. The 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee' had once been in Foley's possession. Several other stolen works of art, which included the works from the Gardner Art heist, were apparently still in Foley's possession. This Ryan fellow had apparently brought most of the deal into existence. He had a remarkable amount of information about the Rembrandt, its forgeries and the two men, Caffrey and a Hollings fellow, who had run the scam around the forgeries. Ryan had convinced Foley to have new forgeries created to bolster their need for funds in the organization, an organization that Roberts figured was part of the Irish Mob. Ryan insisted on having the best, and as the best involved 'their' Rembrandt, in one sweep they could acquire the artist and the stolen painting._

_Roberts figured into the deal due to old connections from two prior legitimate, FBI-sanctioned attempts to recover the stolen artwork. He had worked undercover and his contacts knew he had both buyers, as well as access to canvas and board necessary to replicate the forgeries with a high degree of 'authenticity.' He was in. When the artist was confirmed as Caffrey, he played both sides. He convinced the Marshals to replace Caffrey's anklet with the modified version containing a small voice transmitter, several months before Zantele picked Caffrey up._

_They actually hadn't anticipate Ruiz's Organized Crime involvement. Zantele was cautious; unfortunately he was also 'ambitious' and had caught Major Crimes' attention enough for them to start monitoring his activities full scale. Most of Zantele's plans, designed by Foley or Ryan, had already been put into play, so it was a matter of following through with a tweak here and there._

_Caffrey himself then became the biggest obstacle. Roberts was certain with his history and profile he'd run, and not to Burke. No, Roberts had truly expected Caffrey to go straight to the original painting and use it to bargain with Zantele for his life. When Caffrey ran to Burke, Roberts' only choice was to place himself as close to Burke and Caffrey as possible, while still keeping his cover with Zantele intact. Zantele had the contact with Foley and Ryan. Roberts didn't even have a hint as to where they were heading._

_Now they had spent over three weeks at Foley's. Ryan after their meeting apparently left to tie up some loose ends. Foley was still gracious but with little conversation. Neal was nowhere to be seen again._

"I'd been given a little more free rein, often being left without guards. Trenton—Trenton vanished. And Zantele had become highly agitated when Trenton disappeared.

"Zantele's questions as to Trenton's whereabouts were met with a blunt, '_He was told he'd be looked after and he was._'

"Then he was told, '_He's your man, you look for him.'_

"Zantele nearly lost the last remnants of any composure he had remaining. _'How the hell was he supposed to look for Trenton, when he couldn't leave the estate?'_

"Zantele had wandered around the estate until it appeared his armed escort lost him. Zantele showed up in one of the soundproof interior rooms, somehow not by accident. The room contained numerous pieces of art which were being carefully packaged by Caffrey. Caffrey's momentary surprise at Zantele's entry provided enough time for Zantele to drive Caffrey backwards into several wooden crates. The painting Neal held only hindered him further, as he tried to juggle it and keep his feet firmly planted."

Roberts stopped.

He sighed and dropped his head. "It was so close, Peter, so close... I got there as Zantele drove a foot into Caffrey's ribs several times, then brought his foot down onto Neal's left hand. I heard Neal yelp with pain and coil into a ball, clutching his hand and gasping for breath. Zantele was screaming at him about all the things he'd cost him and he was about to pay for it all. And something about plug horses."

Roberts squinted his eyes trying to fathom that one for a moment.

"Neal was between us when Zantele pulled a gun, some old antique pistol that must have come from one of Foley's collections. He brandished it at Neal, telling him he'd make sure it was a slow agonizing death. I tried to talk him down but Neal held his full ire. He told me every painful breath Neal was about to take was going to put a smile on his face. I got close but he aimed the firearm before I could tackle him. I ended up between them as he pulled the trigger. The black powder filled my lungs, stung my eyes. My ears were ringing. I thought for sure I'd got him killed. Killed because of my stupidity."

Roberts breathed with an unsteady heaviness. He slumped into his chair, eyes averted, his hands trembling. Haggard, with the stubble and worn shirt adding years and the impression of defeat. He started when Peter dropped a hand onto his knee.

"But you took the bullet, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Roberts sighed with a glum shrug. "I'm pretty sure it's imbedded in the bone. Hurts like hell."

Roberts fixed his attention on some abstract, unfocused point. Peter waited for him to return from whatever tormented place he'd disappeared to in his head. Peter watched the man's jaw clenching and the muscles twitching spasmodically around his eyes. He finally brought his attention back to Peter.

"He saved me, you know?"

Roberts found that point again, then gave a huffing sigh, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to find the memories.

"Caffrey. Neal ... he saved me... I remember hands pulling at me, Caffrey telling me to get up, to move, to keep moving. We were out of the house and into the woods before I even realized I'd been shot. He wrapped my leg before he looked after his own hand—the two small fingers were at odd angles. I was sure his ribs were cracked but you'd never know it, other than the occasional gasp and an arm wrapped around them. He never once complained. Never once accused me of anything. He had ... He had no reason to save me."

Roberts look abashed. Then a near-whimsical smile spread across his face.

"Sly fox him. He'd got a cache in the woods in a ram-shackled old shed. Food, water, clothing, med kit ... and hidden under some brush, a satchel wrapped in a tarp. He wouldn't let me near the damn thing. I'm betting he had the Gardner art in it... Anyway, we headed deeper into the woods. The man's near relentless once he gets going."

Peter couldn't deny that one; good or bad, Neal was persistent to a fault once he'd chosen a path.

"When I slowed him down, he just grabbed onto me and took my weight.

"I asked him _'Why?'_

"_'Why what?'_ he says.

"_'Why help me? I got you here.'_

"_'Yep.'_

"Yep is all he says. Yep. What is yep supposed to mean?"

"That's Neal, Bob. I'm not sure anyone should try and walk in the recesses of his mind. If it's not a labyrinth of Escher's with tessellations and stellated ico..." Peter waved off Roberts' quizzical look. "Sorry, go on."

"Maybe a Möbius Strip or two?"

Peter humphed with a broad smile. "Definitely. Explains the infinite persistence."

"Peter... I really don't know how I can possibly make amends for getting him into this."

"Ummm." Peter huffed and took a long moment before answering. He'd been pissed at Roberts to start with and wanted nothing more than to drive a fist into his face. Roberts' misguided—although illegal and entirely unethical—attempt to resolve the Gardner heist slowly swung Peter's opinion. When his protection of Neal emerged throughout his narration, Peter was swayed; he'd leave the man's face intact.

"... I think in the long run, it's best you were involved... At least ... well, at least he had one person around who wasn't trying to put a bullet in him."

"Yeah, right. His uncle seemed pretty protective at first. I asked him what happened between them, when we were trudging through the woods. I got a cold stare and a nonchalant shrug, and a faster pace that was agony. We didn't stop until he sat me down along a old wooden fence. He seemed like he knew exactly where he was going until we stopped. He walked ahead, then turned us back a few yards. He cleared some heavy growth away from the fence and helped me over. We struggled through some underbrush and suddenly we're on an old pathway through the woods. Bluebells everywhere, light streaming through tall oaks and beech. He gave me shit when I tried picking one of the bluebells. Said they were protected. Caffrey steals millions of dollars worth of artwork and chastises me for trying to pick a little blue flower. Go figure."

Peter's smile twinkled up to his eyes. Go figure indeed. Neal had an exit strategy, likely had the art, managed to rescue Roberts in the process, found a hidden pathway in the woods, and, in the middle of it all, stops to lecture Roberts on endangered wildflower species.

"When I started to ask another question, he told me,_ 'One left.'_

"I told him_ 'tha' wasn't fair, 'cause he never gave me any answers.'_

"He says, _'One question. Never agreed to answer any of them.'_

"I agree to _'only one more if he'd answer it.'_"

"You asked for the answer to be the truth, right?"

"Uh, no, should I?"

"Oh, yeah. Anyway."

"He agreed. I was surprised; I guess now maybe I shouldn't have been. Guess I wasn't thinking of him as a con artist anymore."

That one stung Peter. Roberts hadn't meant it to, but it stung. Peter always thought of Neal as a con artist. A very talented, intelligent con man, but nonetheless a con. He couldn't dislodge the profile around Neal. The three years of chasing him, a friendly arrest, a harebrained escape, another arrest, a couple more quirky escapes and arrests, imbedded the image of Neal as a con deep into Peter's psyche.

"Would you believe, the first thing that pops in my head is Zantele wiping Caffrey's face in the plane?

"I asked him _'why that upset him over Zantele backhanding him?'_

"He glared at me for a long moment, huffed and told me _'it was personal.'_

"I told him _'I didn't mean to pry. I just didn't understand.'_

"He laughed and told me _'I was dense'_ and said _'it wasn't personal between him and Zantele. It was a personal thing to do. Something that implied closeness. Getting smacked in the face didn't.'_

"He turned around and started along the path, then turned back to me. That really sort-of-soft sunlight, broken by the high branches of trees not yet in full leaf lit his face. The massive oaks of the forest we were in seemed to stand like sentinels around him with the bluebells bouncing at his feet in the light breeze. Damn! How does a guy disheveled by a trek through the woods, with cracked ribs, broken fingers and multiple bruises across his face, manage to convey a self-assured sense of calm and appear like some folklore hero in complete command of the life around him. He just needed a bow and sword."

"Nah, No bow. No sword. Neal veers away from anything to do with violence. Try a sorcerer's wand." Peter poked a finger into Roberts' leg, the good one. "He seems to have cast a spell over you."

"Funny, Burke," Roberts grumbled. "The man saved my life. I'm sure of that. His family wouldn't have left me kicking around after everything that went down. I wouldn't call being indebted anything magical."

"No? Anyway, go on."

"We walked through the day and into the night, until I collapsed. I can't believe I stayed upright as long as I had; I think it was Caffrey's sheer willpower that had kept me going. As soon as the adrenaline rush subsided the shock took over. I remember an unnerving sense of loss. So many things in life I should have done. Lots of regrets. I must have been delusional, or maybe it was Caffrey; either way I remember talking about odd things. Pigeons and manuscripts. Awnings and manholes. Flying through the air on banners. Orange, lots of orange. A silk scarf that kept slipping away. And what must be a recurring nightmare of being chased. I guess that fits, only ... Only he told me about a dragon with massive wings encompassing him, capturing him and locking him away in a glass tower."

Roberts stopped and screwed his face into a knot.

"No. Nope. I think he was just trying to come up with tales, anything to keep my focus, to keep me calm. He gave me some more meds from his kit and bundled me up in a small tarp... He described a knight, George; it was like the dragon and knight were one and the same... It was hazy. Next thing I knew I'm here, with no idea how I got here. Caffrey shrugged when I asked. A couple days later he says he's gotta look after things, get us out quietly. Told me to trust him and sit tight. Like I was going anywhere. The bullet might have been a low caliber but with our hasty escape my recuperating was going to be rough. Plus I was a rogue FBI agent, so no one to call for back-up and hard to explain to anyone what was going on. Unlike Caffrey, I didn't have alternate escape routes. That's it. End of my involvement."

"George and the Dragon," Peter finally remarked absently.

"Sorry?"

"Raphael's St. George and the Dragon. Neal's rumored to have it in his possession."

"I didn't know it was stolen."

"Part of Neal's brilliance. Take something, replace something. Often years before anyone realizes, then the trail's cold and it never makes the news, too embarrassing for the owner. Those jobs aren't for cash. It's the thrill. The thrill of executing a perfect heist and then possessing a piece of work from one of the masters."

"Umm. Well, I'm certain he's in possession of some, if not all, of the Gardner art."

"You didn't ask?"

"Didn't want him to go to ground."

"You never thought to call me?"

"I did. I finally admitted to myself Caffrey wasn't coming back. I called for you a couple of days ago. Your office said you were on assignment and couldn't be reached."

"You figure Neal ran." It was more rhetorical than question.

"No. No. I ... I really thought they'd caught up with him. That he was dead. He asked me to trust him. I did. Why wouldn't I?"

Peter nodded. Why not? Countless reasons. But the more Peter knew Neal personally, the more Peter came to terms with Neal's skewed reality. Peter smiled to himself as an unusual sense of pride washed over him. Neal's integrity, even if misplaced at times, was one of the reasons Peter placed more and more trust in Neal. Faith in his friend and partner.

Peter stood and stretched, his back snapping in a disgruntled protest at having been stooped forward intently listening to Roberts for far too long.

"I'll go find our hostess and get some travel arrangements set."

"Peter?" Roberts took a deep breath. "I know my return isn't going to go well... I'd ... I'd like to thank you now. Caffrey thinks very highly of you. He was insistent you'd do what you could for me. I know my career's shot. Pension's long gone. But more ... more than anything ... I'd just like not to feel ... not to feel entirely alone."

Roberts' self-deprecating, anguished appeal brought a nod from Peter. He turned and left the man wallowing in his own thoughts. A career spent on one case, filled with repeat failures, had driven him past a point of no return. He wanted to recover the Gardner art and was willing to sacrifice everything and everyone to accomplish that task. With Caffrey it had turned to a dilemma for Roberts. Caffrey was merely a means to an end, until he realized Caffrey was ultimately one of the good guys.


	26. Breezes

**26 BREEZES**

Previously: Agent Bob Roberts had answered Peter's questions, openly, without regard to incriminating himself. Unfortunately, it had opened a Pandora's Box of even more perplexing questions. Neal's family? Why he was brought to Ireland? How he and his family were connected to the stolen Gardner painting of Rembrandt's _'Storm on the Sea of Galilee'_?

Enjoy!

* * *

Bright sunlight streamed through the open windows, warming Neal's exposed back. He grumped and rolled to the coolness of the other side of the bed and buried himself under the sheets. Moments later the quiet of the house brought him bolt upright in bed and eye to eye with a very bemused Peter Burke. Peter handed him a cup of coffee.

"Aisling insisted on letting you sleep." Peter gestured to the windows. A soft breeze tussled the fine sheers that hung across them. "Figured the fresh air and sunlight would bring you round when you were ready."

Neal eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh." Peter glanced at the coffee. "Well, the cottage is two hundred and forty years old. The floorboards creak the moment you move in that bed."

Neal blushed. He wasn't one for blushing but the immediate realization of what Peter was referencing brought a quick warmth to his face followed by a sheepish grin.

Peter's wry smile turned into a impudent smirk. It had been late when he finished speaking with Agent Roberts. Aisling wouldn't permit them to leave at such a later hour. She had found comfortable spots for Diana, Jones and Peter downstairs, and settled Roberts back upstairs, before mischief danced into her sparkling blue eyes and she latched onto Neal and trotted him upstairs, presumably to her bedroom. Neal had given him a slight hapless shrug. Peter was moments away from realizing that he should be finding a place to secure him. And just where and how exactly do you secure Neal Caffrey in a centuries-old cottage in the middle of the Irish countryside? Peter acquiesced to the higher power of the cottage owner.

"Do I get breakfast in bed too?" Neal broke Peter's reminiscing.

"No!"

"In that case, I'd prefer getting up and dressed without an audience."

"Suddenly mister modesty. You weren't so modest last night."

Peter's swift exit left the pillow hurtled at him smacking into the hastily-closed door.

Neal figured Peter had left him alone to get a quick shower and shave but instead bumped right into the man on his exit from the bedroom.

"Peter, seriously, we can't keep meeting like this."

Peter scoffed at him and presented him a small kit bag. "Thought you'd appreciate these."

Neal immediately recognized his neatly-rolled clothing in the kit bag. "Peter, you're such a boy scout. No fedora?"

"You're welcome." Peter rolled his eyes.

"Thanks."

Before Peter could head back downstairs, Neal stopped him with a light touch to his arm. "No, Peter. Thanks."

Peter gave him one of those rare understanding 'I know' glances and left Neal watching his retreat back downstairs.

Twenty minutes later Neal padded downstairs in bare feet and found Peter in the kitchen.

"You made me breakfast!"

"Scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Can't go far wrong with those."

"Yeaaahh. El kinda mentioned your select cooking skills."

Peter glared at him. "Eat."

Neal slid into his chair and was pleasantly surprised to find Peter's breakfast was reasonably decent.

"Where's everyone?"

"I sent Diana and Jones ahead with Roberts; we'll meet up with them at the airport."

"Aisling?"

"She got called in for work. Said she had shopping to do after."

"Never heard her go."

"You like her, don't you?"

"Nice try. Long story."

"Try me."

"No, it's past. Some things are meant to be memories, not dreams."

Peter regarded his friend for a long moment. "Roberts had a passport. The second set of documents you asked for, in your text, were for Aisling?"

Neal stared back at Peter, then sighed and dropped his eyes. "If she needed them. I put her in danger coming here. I had nowhere else to go." He traced circles on the table with a finger. "I wanted to give her the option to go if she felt threatened."

"Right. She's not going."

"Nope."

Peter ate his own identical breakfast without further conversation. When he finished he wiped his mouth, placed his napkin on his plate and stared absently at the table.

"You're not going to let me off the hook, are you?" Neal mused.

"Nope. Too many things left unanswered."

"Didn't Roberts fill you in on everything?" Neal asked hopefully.

"About his involvement, yes. Your involvement is still suspect."

"Suspect! Suspect. Ya think?"

"I try not to."

"Right. 'cause you don't think when it comes to me, you just react. _English Justice_ prevails," Neal quipped.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's an oxymoron, Peter. You're presumed innocent until proven Irish."

"You think I always see you as guilty?"

"Tell me." Neal quelled his rising anger. "Tell me just once when the first thought you had wasn't that I was guilty of whatever?"

Peter didn't immediately answer.

"Did you arrest Roberts? Put him in cuffs? Nope. But first thing you do after more than a month is throw cuffs—zip-ties—on me."

"I don't have any authority to—"

Neal shoved himself away from the table, gave Peter a moment's more contemplation and abruptly stood and started walking away.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home."

"Which one?"

Neal's incensed lour brought Peter up short.

"Either way, YOU are NOT going anywhere. Sit down. NOW!"

Neal continued to glower at Peter.

Peter kept his gaze even, every aspect of his being conveying an unequivocal plea for Neal to comply.

Finally, Neal rolled his head sideways, closed his eyes and exhaled a slow terse breath. He turned back to Peter with glossy eyes and gave him another long look, then set himself back down in his chair. He crossed his arms and ankles, with his feet stretched out in front of him. He rocked his right foot back and forth in an impatient cadence, which was apparently capturing his attention.

Peter gently drummed fingers on the table, until Neal finally brought contemptuous blue eyes up to meet sincere soft brown ones. Neal quickly dropped his head back down. Peter recognized the action. It wasn't insolent, rather, an escape from the emotional intensity.

Peter spoke with a soft, unpretentious tone, "No lies. No misdirects. No cryptic messages. I want to know exactly what's going on with you."

Neal sighed. "To prove my innocence, or guilt?"

Peter slapped his palms onto the table. Neal flinched, and stared up at Peter, startled by the uncharacteristic physical outburst.

"You were gone for more than a month; what did you want me to think? The Rembrandt was gone and so were you. Gone."

"And so were Roberts and Zantele but it couldn't possibly be either of them. Gotta be me. Yep, I was just wandering around New York with nothing to do, so I decided I'd go for a drive with a rogue FBI agent who had a gun pointed at me! Why weren't you there?" Neal demanded. He huffed, his voice suddenly mournful, "You said you'd be there."

Peter met Neal's anguished, plaintive blue eyes. He narrowed his own eyes, then quickly realized what Neal was referencing. "_I was_ there, Neal. Right behind the transit bus. I watched you get off."

Discordant emotions, usually hidden by charismatic charm and a requisite to persevere, rippled across Neal's face. Peter could not keep up with them and chose the simple tact of complete honesty.

"I pulled behind the bus as you turned right. I went to turn up behind you but a truck pulled in front of me and blocked the way. It wasn't until later that I thought it was intentional. The street was empty when I took the next turn. Nothing, not even taillights. A small package sitting desolate on the sidewalk, and your cell phone scattered along the street, was all I found. I had no direction, no idea where you had gone. _You vanished_. The painting. Roberts. Zantele. Gone. Not a trace. I tracked a few leads on you. Then there was nothing. Not the slightest hint, no sign of you."

"What about the painting and ..."

"It was _you_ I was trying to find."

"You were _only_ looking for me?"

"I always look for you, Neal; it's one of the things I do best. Only ..." Peter tipped his head gently to the side until he was sure he had Neal's full attention. "... Only this time, this time, it was entirely as your partner, your friend."

"And if you happened to find the art, and Zantele, and Roberts in the process?"

"A bonus."

Neal sighed. "Fair enough."

"I need answers though, Neal."

"You spoke to Roberts for hours."

"I want your side of things."

Neal barely managed to stifle the eye roll.

"Okay. You already know the history of the 'Storm'. Roberts picked me up at gunpoint. He, Zantele and Trenton dragged me to Ireland. I painted a few pictures. Tried to get to England. Got locked in a detention center. Then you guys showed up." Neal raised his hands in a submissive _there_.

Peter sank his face into his hands. Then gazed upward and ground out a penitent, "Have mercy on me."

"What?" Neal cocked his head to the side.

"You know, if I didn't know some of what you've been through, I'd consider choking you."

"Yep." Neal gave him an unexpected smug smile. "Then it really would be hard to get answers."

Peter suddenly stood. Neal immediately tensed. They locked eyes but Peter was quick to break the silence. He'd seen apprehension, no, fear, trounce on Neal's being. An unexpected fear that threatened to overwhelm the owner of those expressive blue eyes.

"More coffee." Peter rushed the words out.

Neal still watched Peter intently.

Peter dipped his head a bit. "Coffee. Do you want more coffee?"

"Uh." Neal breathed. "Yes. Yes, please."

Peter poured the coffee. He laid a firm hand on Neal's left shoulder and placed the coffee mug in front of him. He gave a reassuring clasp and double tap to Neal's shoulder.

"We'll get through this but you have to, _you have to_, help me on this. Do you understand?"

"Yeah." Neal sighed and tipped his head back until it came to rest on the top rail of the chair. He closed his eyes. "Ask away."

Sideways eyes watched Peter set his own coffee on the table and slide his chair closer.

Peter kept to a sedate FBI line of _inquiry_ for more than two hours. Neal answered, mostly confirming what Roberts had already told Peter. Peter seemed satisfied with the boring, impersonal responses, so far.

Soon enough though, Neal found himself shifting uncomfortably as he watched Peter rubbing the fingers of his right hand with his thumb in a repetitive, slow circular motion. Neal anticipated the personal inquisition brewing in Peter's mind. The mounting tension brought him upright. He rubbed a thumb and finger across closed eyes, until he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I know you're going to ask, so ask." His voice was more testy than he would have liked.

"You want a break?"

"Nope."

"You're Irish?"

"What?"

"You said _'Innocent until proven Irish'_. You're Irish?"

"Fair skin, blue eyes, dark hair and 'Caffrey'. It never crossed your mind?" Neal stared sullenly at Peter, who never so much as blinked. "Okay. Yes, I was born here. Satisfied now?"

"Not even close."

Neal took a deep breath, tipped his head slightly to the side and closed his eyes, before exhaling slowly. He rolled his eyes open. "Fine."

"Max Foley is your uncle?"

"My mom's brother." The response was still slightly flippant.

"He's involved with the Irish Mob?"

Neal half choked and spluttered. "Jesus, Peter, where'd you get that idea?" He sat forward in his chair. "Never mind. An assumption from Roberts, right?"

Peter nodded a yes.

"My uncle's a lot of things but he's not in the Irish mob."

"No?"

"No."

"Then why the artwork?"

"What artwork?"

Peter crossed his arms. "Start with the Rembrandt."

"The _'Storm on the Sea of Galilee'_? He doesn't have the _'Storm'_. It's not even in Ireland."

"No?"

"Nope."

"You know where it is?"

Neal nodded a curt yes. "She's safe, always has been."

Peter's wry smile touched his lips at Neal's reference to the painting in the feminine, at Neal's pleasure of all things beautiful, of things that should be cherished and revered, and caressed with the mind's eye.

"What?" Neal quirked at Peter's sudden distant focus.

"Nothing. Where's the painting? And don't ask which painting."

"New York. Never left the building. I didn't trust Roberts, and you..." Neal repositioned his feet. "Well, you, I just ... I didn't ... I couldn't take the chance, so I kept her safe. You didn't—"

Peter cut him off with the wave of his hand, "It's okay, Neal. All for the right reasons. Should have listened to you; that intuitive survival mechanism of yours is remarkably sharp."

"There was a lot going on."

Peter nodded. Here was Neal Caffrey giving him an out, a chance to save face. So much might have been averted if Peter had conceded Neal's suspicions: the tracker being tampered with; Zantele knowing things he shouldn't; Roberts' curiosity about the painting and with Neal.

Then to Peter's astonishment, Neal continued with the questioning. "So, why the artwork?"

Neal leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and his chin on his folded hands. "I grew up with it. I spent a lot of time at my uncle's estate, with my mom. He taught me to appreciate art and painting. She taught me to appreciate life and painting. She and I used to copy my uncle's pieces, see who could find the flaws, see who could match the colors and hues, the play of light, the brush strokes. My uncle often kept the pieces my mother painted and a few of mine. I had no idea then. When I wasn't painting, I was exploring the estate or the woods with my cousin. She was a year younger than me but we may have well been twins. We were inseparable. We used to collect all manner of thing, which included several frogs and snakes we let loose in my uncle's solarium. That didn't go over so well." Neal stopped, lost in a moment of long-past memories.

"Aisling?"

"Huh. No. I met Aisling at school when I was ten. She was never allowed at my uncle's."

Peter furrowed his brow in surprise. It was hard to imagine anyone not liking the young woman.

Neal laughed at Peter's questioning expression. "Really, Peter, sometimes you miss the most obvious things, and you being a Catholic boy an' all."

"Oh. Ohhh." Peter repeated, realization dawning.

"I thought you knew your history better; this is Northern Ireland, Peter. The Republic of Ireland ..." He pointed South. "... is a stone's throw away. On both sides of that arbitrary border, lands were confiscated repeatedly. The Scots settled Presbyterians here. Cromwell sent a few Anglicans. Then lots of recent political policy favored Protestants, and disadvantaged Catholics, which encouraged a whole lot of faithful Protestant settlers in Northern Ireland. Things never work too well when you 'settle' people in places others already call home. Kinda makes for bitter bedmates."

"God."

"Blamed for lots, but far more to do with politics and power, always pow..." Neal trailed off, at Peter's serious, disbelieving glower. "Oh! ... You put it together?"

"She Protestant and your family is Catholic."

"Yep."

"Catholic and ... IRA?"

Neal stood, a certain melancholy descending on him. He gave Peter a long frown and walked around the table to grab the coffee pot. He refilled Peter's coffee mug and then his own, before stepping back from the table and furrowing his brow at Peter.

"Your uncle's IRA." Peter hesitated, almost unsure if he wanted to push Neal further. "And the rest of _your_ family?"

Neal shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets.

Peter had noted earlier that he had opted to keep the jeans rather than the suit Peter had brought. The casual, pieced-together appearance lent an air of youth to Neal. And a vulnerability that Peter was not familiar with.

Neal wet his lips and huffed his cheeks.

"Yes."

A simple yes that conveyed volumes to Peter. It was an outright honest answer and one filled with anguish and remorse.

"Your whole family?"

Neal gave a matter-of-fact shrug.

Peter eyed Neal sceptically. Being part of an IRA family usually meant being completely indoctrinated. There was no room for your own ideology. No tolerance for Protestant friends. It certainly wasn't something you walked away from lightly. What had Roberts said? _'Sanctimonious independence', fighting and sanctimonious independence._ Those words yelled by Neal at his uncle made more sense now. Shame. It was shame and remorse that radiated from Neal. Your family, your history, was something you couldn't remedy. Neal appeared to have resigned himself to live with his family's connection to the IRA. Revealing that connection, however, and especially to Peter, without the current circumstances prevailing, would have been monumental, if not verging on catastrophic for Neal. What else had he just said about painting, _'he didn't know then'_. To Peter this all suggested that Neal's family's involvement with the IRA had at some point come as a revelation to Neal as well.

"When did you find out?" Peter ventured cautiously.

"What? That I was born into an IRA family?" Neal's eyes darted, then closed painfully. "When my oldest brother, Sean, was killed."

Peter couldn't slow the questions flooding through his mind and spilling into his eyes. The FBI side wanted all the answers, the partner side wanted to ensure everything was all right, and the friend, the friend want to reach out and console the pallid young man in front of him.

Neal watched the play of emotions across Peter's face. He knew Peter was forcing a multitude of questions into submission. A sudden sense of relief welled up in him. Peter wasn't asking the questions; he was waiting, patiently, giving Neal the opportunity to continue or close the conversation. Peter had dropped the FBI stance; he was here now solely as a friend. As a friend, Neal could open the floodgate for all those questions, and Peter would be there, would fight against the currents that threatened to overwhelm him and keep his head above water. He never talked about his family. Never had anyone he wanted to talk to about it.

"He blew himself up."

The words came out quickly, blunt, and nearly shocked Neal into slamming those gates shut. He hadn't even noticed the tear that had escaped his glazed eyes. Then he caught Peter's reassuring evince. He closed his eyes, tossed his head back and muttered something unintelligible, before retaking his seat. He planted his forehead into his hands and spoke down at the table.

"My mother raised me to dislike the IRA. I hated them. It was an IRA bomb that killed my brother, Sean, days prior to my 14th birthday. He'd promised to teach me how to ride his motorcycle when I turned 14. Instead of a birthday, we had a funeral." Neal paused to draw a deep breath in, a queasiness rocking through him. "Then the arguing started between my mom and dad.

"She'd say over and over,_ 'You promised to leave him out of it, you promised.'_

"He'd growl back at her, '_Things 'ave changed. He's not a child; ya can't coddle the boy forever.'_

"There was so much kept hidden from me. Everything my father had taught me had been a lie. Everything we did together a means to prepare for some ultimate revolutionary task. He taught us all to hunt—to use firearms; how to survive in the woods—to go to ground; how to build things—electronics, to set bombs; games of strategy—to plan attacks. Oh, and how to bluff and cheat at cards. Nice, a hundred and one ways to prepare your sons as terrorists without them knowing."

Peter was positive he had an utterly-stunned expression plastered on his face. He fought to shape it into a reassuring calmness. How the hell did Neal pull those looks off so seamlessly?

Neal fluttered eyes—rubbed red—open and peered astonishingly deep into Peter's own eyes. He let out a soft, almost gasping laugh.

"Lots to take in?"

"Oh yeah."

Peter wasn't sure if he'd managed to appear like a duck for Neal. Damn it! Neal could probably manage a swan but all Peter could muster, or at least he hoped he was mustering, was a duck serenely floating along the surface, while his feet were paddling like crazy under the water to stay afloat.

"You said before your father was a dirty cop?"

"Yes, but not in a typical way." Neal sighed. "He was a high-ranking IRA _'volunteer'_, one of the Provisional Lads. He'd grown up in Crossmaglen. He was right in the thick of what came to be called the _'Troubles'_. He was a smart man in many respects."

A slight edge had started to creep into Neal's tone. "He believed the best way to gather intel and commit subversive acts was by penetrating to the heart of the organizations you despised. So, that's what he did: he joined the local police force. Even moved up the ranks and got decorated as a _loyal UK_ police officer. All the while feeding info to his Lads, info that got police officers and soldiers killed. He was killed in the _'line of duty'_ when I was 22." Neal finished with a distinct note of sarcasm.

"I thought you said two?"

"Hmm. Oh. Two, twenty-two, semantics."

"Twenty years difference is not semantics." Peter voice rose up.

Neal's frustration was evident in his retort. "Fine. I didn't want to discuss it and you wouldn't let it drop—at two I wouldn't have known him, wouldn't be able to give you details and you'd let it go. Seriously, how did you want me to start that conversation? _'Hi, my name's Neal Caffrey and my dad's an IRA terrorist.'_ It's not who I am now, and it wasn't who I was then."

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to pry, I just ..."

"Want to understand." Neal interjected impatiently and stood back up.

Neal paced with an edginess that left Peter uncomfortable and unsure as to how much of Neal's family history he wanted to dredge up.

"I need some air," Neal announced and was out the split kitchen door before Peter even registered the action.


	27. Seas

**27 SEAS**

* * *

Aisling's country garden sparkled in the sunlight. Painted flowers bobbed their heads in a gentle southerly breeze that swirled a rich musky fragrance into the air. The whole area literally hummed with the sound of bees and the harmony of numerous small birds flitting through the garden and into the low branches of trees at the edge of the woods. And Neal Caffrey blended in, as if he were painted there by Monet in a garden at Giverny.

Peter stood watching Neal from the kitchen window. He knew Neal wasn't going anywhere for now. The last few weeks had been dramatic enough, exhausting more than anything for Neal, and here he was pressing him for long-buried family secrets. He'd already resolved to limit the questions spinning through his head to those around the art and Neal's time at his uncle's. Peter washed the few dishes in the sink and then fished around in the fridge for leftovers and whatever to throw together a Peter Burke make-do-with-what-you've-got lunch. He nearly dropped the last bowl he held when Neal latched onto it from behind him.

"You know it's safer if you don't try balancing all the plates and bowls at one time," Neal chided. "How about you let me make lunch?"

"I'm good."

"Uh, well, nothing personal, Peter, but the gastronomical delight you appear set to concoct is scaring the hell out of me."

Peter glared at Neal. Then as far as Neal was concerned Peter Burke sulked, actually sulked at having his cooking prowess so brutally attacked.

"You ate breakfast!"

"Survived breakfast."

"I should've stuck to Diana's plan of putting you in the trunk."

"What, and miss a perfectly-prepared Irish leftovers lunch."

Neal directed and Peter executed the chopping, stirring and mixing deftly. Neal couldn't resist going for all the trimmings. He spread out a delectable lunch on a table tucked into a corner of the garden in the soft shade of a gnarled oak tree. He'd even located a couple of Irish ales for them.

After some light conversation, a few laughs, and Peter conceding Neal's lunch exceeded anything he could possibly imagine from leftovers, Neal quietly apologized for walking out and could he pass the bread.

Peter obediently passed the bread, stopping as Neal grasped the plate.

"Neal, you don't have to apologize for anything. I'm ... I'm thankful you trust me enough to talk about any part of your life. I'm the one who should apologize for pressing you for answers."

Neal smiled, a sincere relaxed sort of smile. "Okay, apology accepted. Can I have the bread now?"

Peter rolled his eyes with an exasperated huff. "How about we stay away from the family stuff and I clarify a few questions Roberts left me with?"

"Honestly, you think there is something you can ask about the last five or more weeks that won't involve my family?" Neal raised an eyebrow in exaggerated disbelief.

"Point taken." Peter stared down at his empty plate. "Well, Roberts was fascinated by your interaction with Zantele."

"Yeah, and he watched me strip down on four occasions," Neal answered irately

"Well, there's no accounting for taste."

Neal gagged on his mouthful of bread before catching Peter's smug look and failed attempt to keep his laughter in check.

"You can be such a bastard, Peter Burke."

"Only when necessary," Peter corrected. "Why'd you help Roberts?"

"I just did. I never stopped to think about it."

"No?"

"No."

"He apologized repeatedly. I think you shocked him beyond comprehension."

"Nah, he just likes my—"

"Don't you dare!" Peter warned with a finger wagging inches from Neal's nose.

"... Style, Peter, style." Neal's cheeky grin turned to an entirely perfected innocence.

"Right, and he liked my ties too!"

"Actually, now that you mention it..."

"Owww!" The swat with Peter's twisted cloth napkin caught Neal's upper arm. But the devilish smirk on Peter's face, almost challenging him for a smart-aleck counter, left Neal with an inexplicable sense of contentment.

Peter uncapped another ale and passed it to Neal.

"You're not trying to ply me with liquor, are you, Agent Burke? 'cause that would be entirely inappropriate for an FBI agent."

"So is using FBI resources so you can spend a couple of days with a childhood sweetheart."

"Right." The indignation rang through even though Neal hadn't intended it to.

"Then you need to enlighten me more about all of this."

"I know."

"I can't avoid the family questions, can I?"

"Nope." The regret had returned to Neal's voice. His whole demeanor disheartened.

Peter jumped in with both feet. He hoped he was starting in the shallow end; he really didn't feel like drowning or affecting a rescue quite yet.

"What happened to Trenton?"

Neal snorted, "Kneed."

"Kneed?"

"Mmm, yep, kneed." Neal pointed his finger at his knee like a gun. "IRA tradition when you don't play by the rules or tick someone off."

"Ouch." Peter cringed at the thought of having one's kneecaps ripped apart by a bullet shot at point-blank range. "I take it your uncle wasn't happy at your treatment at Trenton's hands?"

Neal tipped his head slightly.

"You're not going to answer that one, are you?" Peter ignored the rhetorical how-stupid-can-you-get words poised on Neal's lips. "Ohhkay. What about Zantele?"

"Is he on an FBI wanted list?"

"Yeah, soon as he skipped."

"You can remove him," Neal stated matter-of-fact with a nod of his head.

"He's dead?" Peter sounded incredulous.

"Very." Neal took a long swig of his ale.

Peter kept a steady eye on Neal, knowing his young friend's initial deflection held a hint of continuance.

"He stomped on my fingers." Neal rubbed absently at his still-bandaged ring and little finger, then gazed down at them as if they had randomly detached from his hand. "He tried to kill me, and Roberts stepped in front of him. Maybe that's why I helped Roberts." Neal looked up expectantly at Peter; he met the soft steady gaze of those brown eyes, and sighed. "A second gun went off. Zantele's blood saturated my clothing. He slumped to his knees, then his head ... his head ... eyes... inches from mine ... I shoved him away... There was a lot of commotion, people yelling, shouting orders. I pulled Roberts up and kept moving; no one stopped us, so I kept moving."

Neal leaned forward and planted his head into his hands. He shuddered.

Okay, so much for the shallow end of the pool. Hell, they were somewhere in the mid-Atlantic with 10-foot swells. Peter dared not ask who pulled the trigger nor did he expect to get an answer if he did. Self-defense or defense of another would be the only thing finding its way into any report of his. Advising the local authorities might be a little trickier. Mozzie's intel on a body in some nearby river was no longer an exaggerated conspiracy theory. Multiple thoughts continued to click through Peter's mind, then he caught the ashen face peering at him from under overly-long hair. He slammed the brakes on and slipped into a lower gear; time to find a more Caffrey-esque line of questions—no blood and guts.

"You planned an escape?"

"Naturally."

"You had a stash in the woods; why not leave earlier?"

"Things owed. Things to secure."

"Like stolen pieces of artwork?"

A piquant gleam slipped into Neal's side-on gaze at Peter. "Soon you'll know all my secrets, Peter, then all the mystery will be gone."

"I highly doubt I'll ever know all of Neal Caffrey's secrets. ... or George Devore's or Nick Halden's or Steve ..."

Neal groaned.

"Artwork?" Peter prompted.

"Yes."

"What do you mean_ yes?_" Peter sat forward in his seat, expectant, almost demanding an answer.

Neal shrugged.

"Damn it, you really can be annoying."

Neal sat forward, mimicking Peter's posture. "Yup. You'll have to trust me."

After a long pause, the intent contemplative impasse was broken, as Peter shifted back in his chair. He jerked his head back with a slight chortle. "Fine. Instead tell me what happened between you and your Uncle Max?"

"Nothing. Why?"

Peter gave a noncommittal shrug with his hands.

"What did Agent Roberts say?" Neal intoned sarcastically; he was getting tired of Roberts' interjections into his life.

"He thought your uncle might have put the boots to you."

Neal stood and inspected the large oak. He craned his head back, his eyes spinning with the appreciation of an artist watching the interplay of light on the spring leaves and sprawl of dark branches in the canopy high above him. He whispered something, drove his hands into his pockets and turned back to Peter, who was watching him with curiosity. He pushed a shoulder into the tree with an utterly casual stance.

"Umm." Neal wet his lips. "He probably thought about it on more than one occasion; never did. My uncle was always good to me."

Neal bit at his bottom lip then released it slowly and continued.

"It was a fluke; I came across my father's obit. I contacted my uncle and we kept in touch, coded messages and the like. He taught me subtle things about people and working angles on nearly everything. He had a knack for knowing where I was and always looking out for me."

Neal shifted.

"I didn't come back, not right away. I made the mistake of telling Ryan that. About a year later, I made my way back and spent nearly eight months at my uncle's and traipsing around the countryside. Ryan was away in the States finishing an internship. My uncle had tucked my brother under his wing, sent him back to school to get a masters degree in business. Ryan runs all the family's international operations, legitimate or otherwise."

Neal dropped his eyes.

"He wasn't too happy when he found out I was there. I tried to be straight up with him, honest, about everything that happened. Ryan didn't want to listen. He and my uncle got in a shouting match over the phone and my Uncle Max sent me away again."

Neal let out a long breath and breathed a shaky one in.

Peter watched him with a thoughtful equanimity.

"When I found out my cousin was getting married I couldn't stay away. It didn't go over so well with Ryan."

Neal picked at the bark on the oak.

"I think he felt like I'd driven a wedge between him and our uncle. Basically, Ryan blames me for everything that ever went wrong in his life. We ended up rolling around on my uncle's front lawn, until he bloodied my nose. It took four of my uncle's men to pull us apart. My uncle said he wouldn't put up with it and told me not to come back, with a few provisos. Ryan politely threatened to put a bullet in me if I returned."

The last sentence was so bland, it took a moment for the words to register with Peter.

"Turns out Ryan originally set the whole thing up with the painting."

"You mean with Zantele and the Rembrandt?" Peter jumped back in, still struggling to avoid the darker waters.

"No. No, with my former associate and the Rembrandt. Ryan couldn't let things go. He provided the painting, my name and specific instructions. He was able to keep tabs on me and caused several unpleasant things to happen, tip-offs, failed deals, anything to make my life miserable. He figured it was the least he owed me. I always thought it was bad luck."

Neal paused, toeing his still bare feet in the grass, and added almost wistfully, "Several of my best aliases were the results of Ryan's covert efforts to undermine me."

"But you did return?" Darn! The water was cold.

"Not of my own volition!" Neal remonstrated; he'd already had this argument with his uncle. "Ryan orchestrated the whole thing. He knew I'd done the copies of the Rembrandt. Knew that Zantele was pissed about his father's death. That the man could be manipulated with greed and revenge. Ryan wanted the painting back; he had convinced my uncle to have more paintings copied, and in the process cause me one major headache." Neal abruptly stopped.

"Oh, I know that look. Yes, it's possible my family was involved with the Gardner heist—happy with that?" Neal snarked at Peter, who furrowed his brow. "I really don't know for certain, Peter, okay? My father took my mom and I to the Oregon coast for two weeks in 1990."

"Windswept trees and jellyfish," Peter murmured.

"What? Yes. Lots of them. You've been there?" Neal puzzled.

"Uh, no. No, I haven't. Go on." Peter gave a distracted wave for him to continue, the wonder of dreaming someone else's memories flashing across his mind.

"My dad really was good to us, Peter. It was only ... only after Sean ... that..."

"Things changed." Peter interposed.

Neal eyes flickered shut. He pulled a deep breath in through his nose.

"What happened to your mom?" Peter regretted the query the moment it passed his lips.

Neal's eye widened, then narrowed to a scowl, before a nonchalant facade prevailed.

"Left," Neal offered, all too indifferent. He pressed tight against the big oak. Peter half expected him to disappear into it.

"Ah." Peter grimaced. Forget the deep end of the pool, or ocean swells; why not find a whirlpool and throw himself and Caffrey wantonly in? "I shouldn't have interrupted; go back to Oregon."

Neal shoved himself away from the substantive mass of the oak tree. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat, arms crossed, glaring at Peter.

Peter gestured for him to continue.

"There was a stopover in Boston. I remember the hotel overlooking the harbor in Boston and laughing at whether it still tasted like tea."

Of course Neal would remember something like that.

"Peter, if I'd have seen the Gardner art, I'd have known about the set-up with Ryan."

Peter had to concede the point. "But you have seen the art?"

"Nice try."

"Can't help it." Peter parted his hands, then tapped a finger on the table. "You still haven't told me what happened this time with your uncle?"

"I... No, I didn't, did I?"

"Nope."

Neal wavered, shifting restlessly in his chair. "My uncle ..." He leaned forward. "... my uncle Max ..." Neal rethought whatever and leaned back. "... won't talk to me. As far as he's concerned I don't exist."

"But you said it was Ryan who forced you back?"

"Doesn't matter—says it's my fault for not staying out of trouble. Effectively, he ostracized me." Neal bit at the inside of his lip. "Have I finally satisfied your curiosity?"

Peter regarded Neal with a deliberate sternness. "Hardly curiosity, Neal."

They'd crested waves, tumbled through pounding surf, fought for air, with Neal half drowning, and it's all nothing more than a response to Peter's curiosity. It wasn't curiosity: he required all the right pieces to effect any type of rescue, to build a raft if possible, to stop Neal from drifting, or for that matter swimming, further out, into the depths where Peter himself would be lost to strong currents and undertows.

Neal blinked up at Peter, who stood, stretching and shaking his arms and legs out. Naturally, it had to be nothing more than curiosity. Curiosity over something novel, not one's closely guarded secrets, or family. No uncovering of truths, of one's being, of Neal Caffrey.

"Curiosity satisfied." Peter gave a tip of his head. "So let's get you out of here."

"Uh, yeah." Neal stood. "That's what I've been trying to do."


	28. Storms

**28 STORMS**

PREVIOUSLY: Peter still has no idea where Rembrandt's 'Storm' is or if Neal actually has any of the Gardner Artwork. Neal has provided Peter with a little family history. Peter now knows that Neal grew up surrounded by civil unrest both within Northern Ireland and his own home. His talent was fostered by his father, mother and uncle, all for their own various reasons. It's time, however, to head back to New York.

* * *

Neal was peeved at leaving without seeing Aisling. Peter promised they'd see about finding her on their way. She had left a number for Peter. It took about five minutes to pack what they had and a little longer to leave the house in pristine condition.

It was starting into late afternoon when they exited the house. The wind had picked up a little and gray clouds broke the sun into shafts of light. The geosmin of rain and impending thunderstorms drifted across the countryside. As he stepped from the house, Neal shivered against the chill in the air, then the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed into his temple.

Peter heard the crush of the gravel on the pathway and turned to meet the barrel of an AK47 thrust at him. His jaw dropped and then as quickly reset itself squarely back in place. He surveyed the unexpected scene in front of him. Neal stood stock still, his head slightly down and sideways to take the pressure of the firearm pressing dangerously into his temple. The man holding the firearm fit Roberts' description perfectly: 'lighter hair, a little taller, with a bigger frame, ... several years older ... eyes and mouth were identical in shape.' Most definitely related to Caffrey, only with an unnerving cold arrogance to him. Three other men held positions in the driveway, one wielding the AK47 pointed at Peter, and two others positioned so as to stop any possible entry or escape from the driveway area.

"Peter. Meet my brother Ryan," Neal stated with a polite formality.

Ryan growled something low, guttural, at Neal. Peter couldn't make it out but Neal grimaced. Ryan latched onto him with his free hand and yanked him awkwardly away from the cottage to the center of the driveway. Ryan circled him like a shark swimming languidly around its prey, waiting for the opportune time to strike.

Peter held his position, continuing to size up the men surrounding them. He was jolted by Ryan directly addressing him.

"Ya can go or stay, Agent Burke, bu' if ya stay I'll 'ave ta consider ya a witness, and well..." He waved the gun loosely in the air with a light shrug.

"Peter, go," Neal implored.

"I'm fine right here." Peter's reply held a serene, surreal calmness.

"Peter, please." It was a soft, anguished plea.

"Shut it, you." Ryan let the gun roll in his hand and rapped the butt against the side of Neal's head. Neal dropped his eyes. His shoulders slumped and his head hung.

"Well now, Agent Burke, my sources reported ya were the hero type. Course ya'd have to be ta put up with my brother, now wouldn't ya. But then ya do get his expertise out of the deal." Ryan had wandered closer to Peter but was once again focusing on Neal. "Ya are quite the expert, aren't ya, Neal. Paintings, bonds, conning people, manipulating, taking from others."

Neal's head came up defiantly, his breath tense. Peter noted the shake of anger Neal was fighting to control.

"Neal." Peter cut in between the two.

He tried again to break the glaring between the two men.

"Neal!"

Peter waited until Neal finally brought his gaze to Peter, if only for a moment, before glaring at his brother again. Peter knew every second was critical. Keeping the dialogue open was key but choosing appropriate words to diffuse the situation would be the difficulty.

"Neal."

The more time he could squeeze out of the interplay, the more doubts about his actions he could suggest to Ryan, the greater the chance of walking away intact. Ryan regarded him with a smug self-confidence.

"Neal, you didn't tell me everything, did you?" Peter had to find an in for any negotiation to work.

Neal refocused his attention on Peter. He huffed and shook his head with a no.

"Does he know? Neal. Does Ryan know any of what you told me?"

Neal breathed. Heavy.

"Leave it be, Peter. Please," Neal implored.

"No more secrets, Neal."

"Secrets!" Ryan scoffed. "Lies. He's extremely mendacious, Agent Burke. I though' ya were a smart enough man to know that. My brother's a lying little bastard." Ryan strode to Neal in two easy steps and rammed the barrel of the gun into his temple. "Aren't you? Aren't you?" He pressed the barrel hard into Neal's temple, shoving his head down and to the side. "AREN'T YOU?"

"Yes." Neal had dropped into the submissive stance again.

"You want me ta listen to lies, do ya, Agent Burke? Ya want me to hear him out?"

"Like you would have listened!" Neal quipped.

Peter gritted his teeth as Ryan caught Neal up the side of the head with the butt of the gun held flat in the palm of his hand.

Neal cringed, his eyes shutting tightly while he held onto the pain ripping into his head.

Ryan's eyes flashed with anger. He spoke in a low minacious tone, leaning into Neal. So close, Neal could feel the heat of the words burning into his flesh. "Ya took our mother, my mother away. Our brother wasn' even dead a year. And Dad. He started drinking. Hating everything. You, her, me, everything. He hated everything." Ryan's voice rose. " Da ya know what he'd do when he got drunk? Do ya? He'd remind me of how much I reminded him of you. Of what you did. I bore those scars every day—every word, every hit, every slam into a wall."

"It wasn't my doing," Neal countered. "I tried. I tried to tell you."

"Right."

"No. No, instead we ended up rolling around on uncle Max's front lawn."

"D'ya wanna do that again?"

"No!"

"Ya dun like cracked ribs and a concussion?"

"Nah, I didn't like spending four weeks convalescing on the Seine at Uncle Max's villa," Neal quipped.

"I should have broken your arrogant bloody neck," Ryan spat.

Okay. It wasn't exactly what Peter had in mind with opening a dialogue but at least no shots had been fired, not from a firearm anyway. The cuff up the side of Neal's head hadn't been full force. Nasty though. Peter couldn't see any blood. With the two quarreling, Peter had managed to move closer to both men. The armed men standing by either didn't know what to make of the confrontation or had been given orders not to interfere. Peter hoped they were the same armed men from the estate Roberts described and held some partiality for Neal.

Peter chose to step between the brothers in the heat of their verbal sparring. As he did so he latched onto Neal's left wrist with his right hand and pulled Neal behind him, switching Neal's wrist from his right to left hand and effectively tucked Neal in behind him. Neal was too shocked by the action to protest. Peter dug his fingers into his wrist the moment he started to shift.

Ryan on the other hand was best described as flabbergasted.

"Are ya tha' foolish Agent Burke?" He waved the gun menacingly through the air like it was a machete cutting through brush.

"Possibly." The word escaped his lips before he switched back into full FBI mode. There was nowhere in the several weeks of Negotiator and Critical Incident training that supported using himself as a shield, but here he was between a gun-waving lunatic and his intended target.

"Ya've no vest on, and it wouldna work a' this range anyway, Burke." Ryan sneered, "Ya really do fit the idiotic hero mold, dun ya?"

Peter yanked Neal's arm down as Neal started to tug away, enough to let him know that he was in charge and didn't need Neal's assistance right at this moment.

"Ryan, right?" Peter knew his name all too well and continued, "Neal and I had a long chat this morning about honesty and family. I'm fairly certain he left a few details out. Things he wants to forget. Somehow in there the rift between you and him exists. I thinks it's time he told you his side of things, for whatever has made you so hostile towards him." Peter huffed. "What could possibly make you want to kill your own brother?"

"He's a fuken useless waste of breath," Ryan growled, teeth gnashing.

"Neal, he needs to know." Peter's conciliatory tone echoed through Neal's head.

"Peter, please don't, I don't—"

"You will and you are right now. And you. You are going to listen." Peter planted his hands on his hips. "Damn, you both are annoying and pig-headed. Give me the gun NOW!" Peter snapped his fingers, annoyed, and held his hand out. "Don't make me ask twice. You can have the damn thing back after, and do whatever."

To everyone's astonishment—Peter included, given his bold outburst—Ryan slammed the gun into his outstretched hand.

"Fine! I can pu' a bullet in 'im after, as much as I can now. Will tha' shut ya up, Agent Burke?"

Peter nodded. He was actually fearful that if he opened his mouth at that second his voice would crack. He stepped back around Neal. He grasped his right forearm and squeezed, hard enough to make Neal wince.

"Now would be good." Peter's eyed flared for a split second.

Neal gave him one final, plaintive look, then closed his eyes. He blinked them open to a glowering Ryan standing before him, arms crossed. He swallowed heavily.

"I ... Peter." Neal looked around, distressed.

"Here, Neal. Tell him. Now."

Neal took a deep breath. He felt Peter's presence, close, stalwart, and let the memories spill out.

"I don't know what you were told. I didn't know what was happening; I was fourteen. My brother was dead. Not the way I thought. I hated the IRA. I didn't want anything to do with them... Then my father, our father tells me what he's been doing all these years for the IRA. Lying. Lying to the people he worked beside, people he called friend. How could he be part of all the killing? Then ... then he tells me how Sean was setting the bomb. How it went off before it should have. That you ... you knew."

Neal creased his brow and shook his head, his eyes downcast. "He'd been training us since we were little to fight for his cause. The guns, the hunting, the games, all part of it. Then. Then! He wants me to take my place. I couldn't comprehend how he could ask me to do that, not after ... not with Sean being killed. I couldn't."

Neal clenched his teeth. "Killing someone. I ... it wasn't going to happen. I guess our mom thought she could keep me out of it, convince me how dangerous the IRA was; she never said anything against him. Just whispers. I didn't want anything to do with his fight. I told him I'd go to the police station. I'd tell them everything. He said they'd never believe a stupid boy who was trouble at home. They'd believe him."

Peter could see the shudder across Neal's shoulders. The tensing and flexing of his jaw.

"I don't remember how he ended up pinning me against the wall. I remember him hitting me over and over. Until I thought there could be nothing more painful. Then I heard her voice screaming at him. Telling, then begging him to stop. I remember sliding to the floor and him pushing her away. Once, twice, then she stumbled backwards. All slow motion. Blurry, slow motion, as she came down hard on the floor."

Neal's breath came in short gasps between words. "Her head ... the sound of her head crashing into the floor. Him screaming ... crying ... begging her for forgiveness... He'd never even raised his voice to her before... Never. How could he do that...? How could he?"

Neal scrunched his shoulder in an effort to free the nervous tension in his muscles. He sighed. "It was dark when we left. So dark, with the rain coming down in steady sheets. She went ... We went ... We..."

Neal looked around at Peter again. "We went to Uncle Max. Before first light we were in a car headed to Scotland. Max, he arranged everything: the flights, money, passports, and we were gone. Just like that, gone. We hardly spoke. I remember the people on the plane being worried; they kept asking if I was okay, if I needed anything. The plane ... Peter."

"I'm here, Neal." Peter's voice touched his ear as barely a whisper.

"I can't. I can't do this."

"You can. Tell him, Neal. Tell me. Tell me."

Neal let out a long sorrowful breath. He stared up, rocking his head back and forth. "I can't. I can't."

"Neal. Tell me. It will be okay."

Neal wet parched lips. "The plane. The plane landed. They checked everything but we didn't have much. They wanted to know how long we were staying. She said... She said, we were just visiting friends for a couple of weeks. I knew different. Max told me over and over that I could never come back. My father wouldn't jeopardize everything he'd worked for. He wouldn't let me take down the rest of his family or any of his IRA lads. He said my father would kill me if I came back. He said I was lucky to be alive. I wasn't allowed back."

Neal drew in a raspy breath. "We were standing in the airport arrivals. She was just standing there holding my hand. Telling me everything was going to be all right. Then ... Peter."

"I'm still here, Neal. I'm not going anywhere," Peter reassured.

"She ... She just ... My mother ... she ... crumpled to the floor. She wouldn't get up. People were yelling; the police came, and an ambulance. They kept asking me questions. So many questions. I didn't know the answers. I didn't know. They put me in the back of a police car to go to the hospital. They wouldn't let me go with her. They kept rushing. Everything was a rush. It all blurred—the lights, the sirens, people talking like I wasn't there. I heard them talking about a blood clot. The change in pressure dislodging it. A contusion. I didn't know what it all meant then. They kept looking at me, asking where I got the bruises on my face. I just wanted to know what was happening with my mom."

Neal sighed and shut his eyes tight. "They finally left us alone. It was so quiet. So, so quiet. She took all the money we had and her rings and pushed them into my hand. She made me promise that as long as my father was alive, I'd never go back to Ireland. Never call anyone. Never let anyone know where I was. If I did, he'd take me back. He'd send me to set bombs like Sean. He'd kill me one way or another. I promised. I promised her."

Neal couldn't stop the shivering now. He wrapped arms protectively around himself and stared into long-held memories. "Then ... she ... she let my hand slip out of hers. She stared at nothing. Everyone started rushing again. Shoving me out the way. They kept saying 'what about the boy?'. Then to get the police and social worker. I figured they knew where we came from and would send me right back. I couldn't let them do that. I promised. I promised. I ran."

Neal closed in on himself. The world ceased to exist.

Neal hadn't seen it but Peter watched Ryan close his eyes with an agonizing realization. He pulled his breath in, his jaw clenching tightly.

"Poor you," Ryan finally snarled. "I watched our father, my father, in hell for years trying ta find her, ta find you. He couldna bear what he'd done. He loved her. He did everythin' he could ta find her. Ta find you. The all-importan' Neal. I had ta come back from college; my life was on hold while we searched. Nuthin', na a thin'. Max taugh' ya well, didn't he? Always 'is favorite li'le protégé."

Ryan huffed, rage seething through his words. "Da' started drinking, more and more. He'd fly inta rages over nuthin'. D'ya know how many times he blamed me? Asked me why I failed him. Me, I failed him? He was suspended from the police force, then demoted. His precious info dried up. He lost his value as a volunteer to the IRA. Everythin' he did was self-destructive. I got ta watch 'im die, tryin' ta suck air inta lungs torn through with bullets from his own IRA lads. Even in the end he wouldna give 'em up. Na even ta save 'imself."

Ryan stepped closer into Neal. Peter strained to catch the words ground out with a thick Irish brogue.

"They doted on you. She convinced Da you shouldna be involved. He let 'er have 'er way. Ma's fine babbie boy, 'er artist. Ya' ga all the attention, from Ma and Max, while Sean and I dutifully followed Da's bidding. And you, so bloody smart, ya wanted ta be jus like 'im."

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Ya've forgotten, have'n ya? Ha, Da's little shadow. Ya turned out jus like 'im. Life's nuthin' but wha' you want. It's all about you, ya lie ta everyone round ya to get wha' you want. And everyone round ya ends up dead. Your brother ... your ma ... ya father, huh ... your girlfriend ... everyone! Betta watch urself, Agent,..."

Ryan sprawled backwards, his breath escaping in a harsh chuff with Neal's full weight bearing down on him. Peter had barely seen the cat-like pounce. Neal tackled Ryan to the ground, hitting the man square in the chest and off his feet. Neal got in several good cracks before Ryan recovered enough to lock onto Neal's two broken fingers and wrench them agonizingly together, then twist them unmercifully.

Neal yelped in pain. He fought to keep his position on top of Ryan but quickly lost ground with Ryan wrestling him onto his back and driving a fist solidly into his ribs. Neal instinctively coiled and grabbed at his ribs. Ryan clutched at his shirt and drove the next couple of punches into Neal's face, before he brought his hands defensively over his head. Ryan was relentless and managed a few more solid hits before four burly hands pulled him from Neal.

Peter had stood transfixed for a split second, then quickly reassessed the situation. The three armed men surrounding him with stunned expressions slowly gave way to lowered gun barrels, dropped shoulders and winces. Peter realized the men held an allegiance to Ryan yet also some unknown fondness for Neal. Peter transitioned into his official 'I'm in command' mode and ordered two of the men to pull Ryan from Caffrey. They wavered only long enough to cast glances between themselves, then complied. Peter grabbed onto Ryan, who was struggling and bellowing at the top of his lungs to be let go. One man stayed with Peter and he directed the other two to take Neal inside.

Peter spoke with an assertive, controlled voice to Ryan, "It's done. Calm down, n o w."

Ryan's eye burned into Peter until his own unwavering stance finally caused Ryan to relent. Taut muscles relaxed, flared nostrils sought needed breaths of air and deadly eyes turned to cold anger. Ryan tried to pull free of Peter and his recently-acquired back-up. Peter had other ideas and closed his grasp tight above Ryan's elbow and propelled the man forward and into the cottage, his back-up dutifully following.

Peter ordered all of Ryan's men out, then shoved Ryan down hard onto one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

An uneasy miasma surged into the gulf left by Ryan's slowly subsiding anger. He contemplated exactly how much effort would be required to subdue Burke, put a bullet in him, then dispose of him without raising any suspicions. Then he wondered how the man would be as an ally. There was a deep sense of integrity and honesty in Burke's actions. He couldn't, however, reconcile that with being a friend to Neal. Ryan shrugged his chaotic thoughts off and glared up at Burke.

Peter took account of Ryan when the man finally looked up; he narrowed his eyes into an adept scrutiny. He unloaded the revolver and slammed it into the table. He'd have to apologize to Aisling later for the marks he'd gauged into the old wooden farm table. He pocketed the bullets and almost absently spun the revolver around on the table with a finger.

"A Webley? Isn't that kind of cliché?" Peter challenged.

Ryan opened his mouth, blinked and offered a pathetic reply that it was his father's.

"Oh. I guess an appropriate choice when you're intent on shooting your own brother." Peter's voice rose with each word.

"I don't consider the sod as kin."

Peter raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips. "Strange, you argue and fight like a squabbling spiteful brother."

Ryan had about enough of Burke's insolence but before he could respond, Peter had spun him around in his chair, grappling onto his right shoulder and pinning his left wrist on the table.

"You two should be supporting each other but far be it from me to judge you. I'll let your maker do that. I'll tell you what, though." He paused for emphasis, his face inches from Ryan's. "I'll let this go only 'cause you are Neal's brother."

"You're bloody mad," Ryan blurted out.

"No. Oh, no. Perfectly sane. And perfectly PISSED OFF!"

"Then you're a dead—"

Peter's open hand caught Ryan completely by surprise.

"Really? You've threatened me twice now. I don't like being threatened by petty wanna-be thugs. Nor do I like my partner, _friend_, being threatened, kidnapped or beaten! So, here's what we are going to do. You and your lads are gonna walk out of here. As far as you're concerned, Neal Caffrey no longer exists. Understood!" Peter growled.

He paused, leaning harder into the man.

"And, if ya think your little IRA gang will survive a go-round with the FBI, be my guest." He emphasized with a flippant wave of his right hand.

Peter straightened up and set his shoulders back squarely. He flicked his jacket straight and tugged his cuffs down, ignoring the stunned glaring of Ryan. He looked up casually when the man finally snorted and rose slowly to stand in front of Peter.

For a long moment, a dangerously-long moment, Ryan just stood glaring at Burke. His brother didn't deserve the uncompromising loyalty of this man. A bullet, yes. All right, he'd suffice with having rammed his fist into Neal's face several times. If Burke wanted his brother so bad, he could have him. If he dared come back, after Max ostracizing him, and his own threats, there'd be no discussions with an FBI agent, just the report of a revolver. His father's Webley. The Webley his father had clutched to his chest as he died, not his son, who wept hopelessly at his side.

Ryan snatched the Webley from the table and strode out the door.

Not until Peter heard the crunch of gravel, and the vehicle tires hitting the pavement, did he allow himself the luxury of breathing. His entire body quivered with the adrenaline still surging into his bloodstream. He leaned his weight, heavy, onto the wooden table, focusing on the light wood the revolver had marred up. He closed his eyes, a long, slow, shaky breath escaping, before he found the capacity to take a deep breath.


	29. Panoramas

**29 PANORAMAS**

Previously: Neal and Peter are both still in Northern Ireland. Neal has revealed how he ended up in the U.S. and what happened to his mother. Ryan, his surviving brother, has revealed his side of things with their father. Somethings are just too intense, and instead of supporting each other, they end up rolling around Aisling's driveway exchanging blows. Neal, by way of already-hurt fingers, ends up with the worst of it. Peter steps in and sends Ryan on his way. Now time to get Neal on his feet and track a few loose ends down—like millions of dollars worth of art from the Gardner heist. Not to mention getting Neal back to the U.S...

* * *

Aisling had arrived not long after Ryan and his men left. She obviously knew the man and had some choice words for him. She muttered about having to reset her work on Neal's two fingers and referred to the man as an_ 'obnoxious millteach bastart.'_ Neal wasn't thrilled either, not so much about having to endure the realignment, but her comments brought painful chortles to three bruised ribs. Aisling was surprised they hadn't flailed or broken to puncture a lung. They had already sustained damage from the first idiot (Zantele), now his _uascán_ of a brother had driven his fist into them, and possibly a knee as he was pulled from Neal.

_"Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta!"_ _she had chided._

_Neal nodded meekly._ _"I know... I know ... open mouth ... gets ...closed fist."_

Neal, fading in and out depending on how much pain surfaced with each touch of Aisling's ministrations, and decidedly groggy, implored her to cease with the _'exblepalatives'._ No, he couldn't find a simpler word, and he couldn't get his tongue around 'expletives'. Peter wasn't positive about the expletives, as he struggled to catch her words, which melted into Gaelic musings about Neal's brother being _'asinine and a cruálacht amadán.'_

Peter, who held Neal and his left arm tight for Aisling to realign the fingers easier, had a difficult time suppressing his own chuckles threatening to escape. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except that Aisling had wanted Neal upright—something about easier to do and upchucking. So to that end, she had set Neal in front of Peter on a narrow bench in her living room, with Neal pressing back into Peter. Any jostling on Peter's part caused ripples of pain through Neal, so laughter was definitely an unwelcome nuisance.

Conversely, when Neal rolled his head into Peter's shoulder and neck, exhausted, he was certain—between gasps of breath, over clenched teeth—that Neal was humming: soft, melodic, and from a 1980s rock band. Aisling had stopped, stroked back the wisps of hair that had fallen across his face and softly kissed his forehead.

_"Cuimhnigh i gconai. I remember," she whispered, soft, sultry._

Then she caught Peter's eye and mouthed_ 'stitches, head, hold tight.'_ Six stitches with a local anesthetic, but no complaints, not even a whimper crossed Neal's lips. Only the flexing of taut muscles and a hand clenched around Peter's forearm provided any indication of the distress Neal experienced with the placement of each stitch.

Aisling had then informed Peter decisively that he wasn't about to go anywhere with Neal. While she wasn't a licensed doctor for people, if she wouldn't let one of her four-legged patients go roaming around the countryside, she was adamant Peter wasn't about to roam around with Neal either. Not that Peter expected to be going anywhere at the time but he soon reconsidered any lack of compliance with the ordeal of trying to guide Neal in the right direction of the stairs and a bed. The effort required admirable maneuvering on Peter's and Aisling's part.

Peter now sat in the dim light filtering into the bedroom from the hallway. He had studied every aspect of his friend and partner as he lay propped on his side in Aisling's bed. She had wanted him watched all night, fearing a concussion. So they had taken turns, watching, checking, until she had finally fallen asleep on the bed next to Neal and Peter had tucked himself into a comfortable chair. Peter watched, and thought, and considered. He had a lot to digest from the last two days. Finally, the rise and fall of his partner's chest came in the steady, rhythmic breathing of deep sleep. It was lulling.

Peter popped his eyes open. The eerie feeling of being watched wrested him from his unplanned _nap_. The moment of disorientation ended as he focused on blue eyes regarding him wistfully.

Peter raised his eyebrows in recognition.

"Where's...?"

"Gone. He won't be back." Peter wasn't entirely sure the answer offered Neal any comfort.

Neal tucked his head down and closed his eyes, until the silence echoed through the room.

Peter waited patiently, unsure of where the conversation may lead. A small sigh, an escape of the breath Peter had been holding, brought Neal's eyes back up to his. Peter offered a quirky, half-assed, 'I really don't know what to say' smile.

Peter nearly gagged on the rest of the held breath when Neal flatly announced he was naked.

"Yes, you are," Peter confirmed, trying to contain a laugh.

Neal cocked his head in question.

"Auh, mmm..." Peter mused, trying to find the right words. "Well, it, um, you're as _interesting_ half unconscious as you are drugged."

Neal squinted.

Peter couldn't help himself. "Well, it appears if someone's undressing you, you think you should be undressing them."

"I didn't?"

"You did."

"You?" Neal groaned softly.

Peter nodded with all too much enthusiasm, recognizing the discomfort and utter lack of recall on Neal's part. Which, of course, meant Neal was now pondering what he may have said, or sung, or...

"Sorry," Neal offered with an unusually-remorseful tone.

"Aisling's quite the horse doctor." Peter broke the lingering silence.

"Vet."

"She wasn't pleased having to reset your fingers. She says they'll heal fine. Says the ribs are badly bruised but you'll survive. She wrote out a list of dos and don'ts. And something about taking you for a walk three times a day."

Neal rolled his eyes, then snugged back into the covers seemingly unaware of Aisling's presence next to him.

Peter reflected somberly on the two of them lying peacefully in the bed. So close, not touching. He suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though he'd walked into their private existence of something that should have been.

Neal seemed to have fallen back into a light sleep. Peter rose quietly with the early morning light starting to wake the countryside. He cleaned up and headed to the kitchen to make a quick breakfast. He nearly stepped into Aisling as she entered the kitchen.

"Sorry. I step light."

"You do indeed." He smiled. "Our boy still sleeping?"

"Stirrin'. 'is colour's better. I'm still worried 'bout head trauma an' infection. He really should 'ave gone ta hospital." She paused. "I reacted. It's jus'..."

"... the situation," Peter offered, eyes gentle. "Not the first time, is it?"

She shook her head. "Probably won't be the last. The politics of Northern Ireland 'ave a unique way of entering yur life a'times."

"Ummm. We'll leave it at that then."

She nodded agreement and helped to finish making breakfast.

Peter sat, sipping coffee and studying the interesting young woman Neal obviously placed a good deal of trust in. She hadn't been surprised at Ryan turning up, she'd been surprised he'd taken so long. She figured her name change had delayed him but never elaborated. She talked with remarkable familiarity about Ryan. She had never wavered, never questioned, while she patched Neal up.

They chatted casually while she fetched her kit bag and packed a few supplies for Neal. She wrote a couple of prescriptions, albeit for his dog. She apologized for Neal having to be his pet. When Peter frowned, she informed him that in Britain 'pet' had a much more endearing meaning. He was nonplussed when she stroked his hair, like El would, with a passive, underlying strength. Then kissed him lightly on the top of his head and told him to look after Neal: he was exceptionally ... complex.

Aisling had hoped to avoid saying goodbye; she never wanted goodbye to be part of her history with Neal. She knew the permanence of one of those goodbyes would one day be inevitable. The reality was simple: their lives were worlds apart, even if their souls were intertwined by long-past memories and a few new ones.

"Is maith an scathan suil charad — A friend's eye is a good mirror," she had mused. "He may yet see himself for all he is and can be with you as a friend, Agent Peter Burke."

The breaking of glass brought both back to Neal in a heartbeat.

"Shit," Neal muttered.

"I's jus' a glass. Na don't be a fool," she admonished. "Stay where ya are til i's picked up."

Peter caught Neal's grimace. He knew Neal didn't like being warned like a child, yet he immediately acquiesced to Aisling. He stood patiently with glass shards sparkling at his feet.

"Instead of gawking could you pass me my shirt?" Neal frowned at Peter.

Peter handed him the shirt, one Peter had brought. "How's your head?"

"Coordination's a bit off."

"Yup." Peter looked at the broken glass and back at Neal.

If his head hadn't pounded so hard, and the room hadn't threatened to spin out of control, he'd have stepped lithely over the glass and had it picked up. Well, moreso, he'd never have knocked the glass off the nightstand in the first place as he'd stood to slip his jeans on.

Peter watched Neal's eyes swimming. He stepped forward, grabbed his elbow and had him seated back on the bed before Neal even realized.

Aisling was anything but impressed. The 'I'm fine' protests of Neal were completely quashed with her bluntly stating she didn't need any family history repeating with Neal. She lifted his chin up in one hand and tipped his head side to side. She screwed her eyes into a anxious scowl and directed him to follow her finger, then to open and close his eyes.

She turned to Peter. "When wou'd ya be flyin' out, Agent Burke?"

"Tomorrow morning?" Peter answered, worry evident.

"Cou' ya give it another day an' 'ave 'im checked out by a real doctor?" It was an affable plea, not a self-assured request, and it as equally garnered Peter's immediate agreement.

"Now ..." She turned her attention back to Neal. "... Peter cooked us a lovely breakfast, and we'll spoil ya an' le' ya eat it in bed."

"It's more likely to kill me than my head," Neal quipped, his eyes glinting.

"Na, it's more likely I'll be killin' ya if ya think you're gonna 'ave those on in my bed."

Neal followed her eyes down to his jeans. He hadn't paid attention to the deep stain of blood and the dirt ground into them. Another point he'd have to concede to Aisling's insistence that he wasn't exactly fine.

Neal ate—his food stayed down. Neal conversed—his words came smoothly. Neal stood—his world stayed upright. Aisling looked at him sharply but finally relented; it was time to leave.

Peter sat in the car watching the two gently embrace in front of the cottage. Light dancing through tree branches cast them in soft shadows, while warmly-hued flowers encompassed them on the gravel pathway. Aisling cupped Neal's face in her hands and spoke something that made him laugh. He kissed her forehead and sauntered to the car with that assured casualness so typically his. He slid into the front seat next to Peter.

"What?" Neal quirked.

Peter smiled. "Good to see you smile like that."

"Drive." Neal gestured to the road.

They wound back through the Northern Ireland countryside with little comment for several miles. Finally, Peter's never-ending curiosity got the better of him.

"What did she say that made you laugh?"

"Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde," Neal responded without hesitation, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. With the fuming silence coming from Peter, he turned to look at the man. "What? I answered your question."

"I suppose you did; you wouldn't care to translate though?"

"Mmm, I'll have to think about that one. Twenty Questions?"

"Neal, I'm not playing Twenty Questions with you to get one answer," Peter responded irately.

"Well, she was right about one part."

"And what would that be?"

"The anger."

Peter snorted.

Neal suddenly pointed to the left. "Turn here."

"We have a plane to catch."

"I get that. Turn here."

Peter complied, although he wasn't entirely sure why, except for a distinct urgency in Neal's voice. He stared over at the man next to him.

"Road. Car." Neal pointed sharply with a finger to the twisty, narrow road ahead. "I'm still working on having the DMV revoke your license but I need to live a little longer to accomplish it."

"You could walk."

"I like walking. Turn right."

"Want to tell me where we're going?"

"We're already there. Pull up here on the left." Neal gestured to a small turn-out. Neal was half out the car before Peter came to a full stop.

"Could ya pop the trunk?"

Neal walked to the back of the car. Peter stepped out. The trunk, however, remained shut.

"Come on, Peter, you were the one on about a plane to catch."

"I was, but you're leading again and if you haven't noticed I'm not much of a follower. Especially when my consultant keeps trying to call the shots." Peter's tone rose enough to let Neal know he was serious.

"Fine. You're leading, I'm the guy carrying the shovel. Could you pop the trunk?" Neal flashed a look of utter innocence.

Peter sighed. The lock clicked open. Neal fished around in the back for all of two seconds and closed the trunk, his hands empty. Peter scowled and gave him a shrewd once-over.

"Are you leading or not?" Neal asked quizzically.

"Leading to where?"

Neal thumbed up the hillside.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "The young lady we just left was pretty concerned about a concussion and you want to hike up a mountain?"

"I'm—"

"Don't you say it." Peter cut him off bluntly. "Or I'll be using the proverbial shovel."

Neal hesitated, then cocked his head to the side with a grin.

"Five minutes. Promise you won't regret it."

"Oh, I've been regretting it for sometime."

A ripple of annoyance crossed Neal's face, then as quickly disappeared. He pointed at a small, well-worn pathway. "You lead."

Peter didn't budge; instead he stared with heated intensity at Neal.

"All right, all right, ten minutes."

Peter's expression didn't waiver.

"Fine, fifteen minutes tops. And, I promise to immediately inform you, in triplicate, if I feel the least bit tired or dizzy."

Peter's expression still didn't waiver.

"Did you want it in writing too?" Neal rolled his eyes. "Signed in blood, maybe?"

"Nah." Peter started up the pathway. "In writing will do just fine."

Neal gave an exasperated huff and quickly caught up to Peter.

They continued the trek in silence, not out of any frustration but due to an unspoken agreement to enjoy the incredibly -captivating scenery surrounding them. It had only taken a couple of steps before they cleared the stand of conifers that ran along the roadside. Then came an unimaginable vista, dotted with weathered stones in a sea of heather and heath, the deep yellow of gorse along the ridge line and a cerulean sky with wisps of clouds overhead and the brilliant white of thunderheads forming in the distance.

Well, okay, in reality Peter was awestruck and Neal was reveling in a speechless Peter walking through a painting held tirelessly in his memories.

Neal pointed to a small ruin with a gnarled, windswept tree keeping watch over it.

"Days past they used to farm up here. It's all volcanic, ancient by about 300 million years. Lots of folklore and myths about this place. It's called Slieve Gullion, all part of the Ring of Gullion; from the summit you can see the Mourne Mountains, Cooley Peninsula, Armagh Drumlin..." Neal trailed off.

Peter's arms were crossed, his mouth pursed and touched by his typical wry smile, and his eyes, his eyes twinkled with a whimsical mirth.

"This place is special to you for more than its sheer beauty and panoramas."

Neal closed his eyes briefly, slowly popping them open, then narrowing them "Well, there are Neolithic Cairn Passage Graves and the 'Lake of Sorrows'."

Peter groaned. "Your fifteen minutes are up."

Neal pulled a tire iron out of thin air. "All set." He proceed around the side of the stone ruin to a small mound of lichen-covered rocks and started to pry at a stone.

"Okay, should I be hoping there is nothing illegal about what you're doing?"

Neal shrugged.

"So, I should be ignoring the signs that say 'Special Area of Conservation'?"

"No. Not at all. You should be enjoying all the scenery. Nowhere else in the world like it."

Neal soon worked the stone loose and reached his hand in to free something else. He tossed the tire iron aside and then gave Peter a dirty look.

"You could help."

"Sorry, just admiring the scenery." Peter walked around and stood next to Neal and tipped his hands in question.

"Push." Neal put both hands on top of the mound but Peter hadn't moved. "It really does work better if you put your back into it, unless you were going for the telekinesis thing."

Peter eyed Neal. "This isn't one of those cairn grave things?"

"Peter. That would be desecration. Not to mention the destruction of a historically-significant site." Neal put his hands against the mound again and started to push; Peter joined him. "Nope... This is a mid-18th-century grave."

Peter immediately stood upright and unconsciously brushed his hands off.

Before he could rebuke him, Neal cut in, "I'm joking, Peter. I helped build this with my brother Sean when I was 12 or 13. Hmm, he said then it was for secret treasure and midnight exchanges. I thought he was just playing for my imagination. It took five tries before I figured out how to open the damn thing. And, only on my last trip back."

"Did you find any treasure?" Peter grumbled sarcastically.

Neal furrowed his brow and concentrated on removing the top of the stone mound.

"Oh." Peter tipped his head to the side. "You did find something."

"Guns," Neal answered brusquely. He eyed Peter warily and pulled a large satchel wrapped in heavy plastic from the mound. "And that's a Yes to that look."

"The art?" Peter couldn't help the hint of excitement in his voice. He figured the satchel was the one Roberts had mentioned seeing when he and Neal had escaped from Max's estate. Roberts had speculated that it held the Gardner art. Peter hoped it did.

"Art. Yes. The Art." Neal's stance held a determined resolute cast. "You'll have to be patient."

"You're sounding like Mozzie." Peter raised an annoyed brow. "And patience. Patience is one thing you've received a great deal of but it could run thin at any time."

Neal pursed his lips, squinted, and burst out laughing, much to Peter's chagrin.

"Oh, my God," Neal finally managed. "She was right."

"Who was right, Neal?"

"Aisling. That's what she said to me, 'Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde'."

"In English," Peter huffed.

"Sorry. She said _'Beware of the anger of a patient man'_." Neal positively beamed.


	30. Rain

**30 RAIN**

* * *

Peter snapped his burner cell shut and glanced around at the swirl of dense white storm clouds that hastened to bring rain their way.

"You set?"

Neal had insisted on replacing the cairn as found. _'Seriously, Peter, you never know when something will come in handy,'_ he'd stated as though he was talking about a can opener, not a specially-built cairn for storing exchanges of contraband. Resetting the lock within the mound of stones proved as complicated as opening it and Peter's frustration had started to rise.

Neal brushed his hands off. "Diana?"

"Yeah. They'll met us at Glasgow."

"Airport?"

"That's where normal people catch planes."

Neal ignored the irate tone. "Glasgow or Prestwick?"

Peter huffed, "Glasgow International. Is that a problem?"

Neal winced. "Not so good."

"And what exactly does '_not so good'_ mean?"

Neal was already a good distance ahead of Peter on the pathway back down the hillside. The satchel was slung casually over his shoulder and tucked partly under his right arm to ease the bounce created by his brisk gait.

"Come on, Peter, it's gonna pour," he called back over his shoulder.

Peter was agile and fast enough to have put himself only a few steps behind Neal in seconds. "Care to elaborate?"

"Well, the clouds are getting nearer and grayer and then the rain comes down."

Neal stopped in his tracks and eyed the hand that gripped his left arm just above the elbow. He lifted his eyes to meet Peter's; they held him with the same steadfast Burke obstinance. "We can't fly out of Glasgow; actually Prestwick is probably not a good idea either."

"No?"

"No."

"Now why would that be?"

"A slight misunderstanding."

"Slight?"

Neal gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Oh." Peter narrowed his eyes. "Have anything to do with a certain ring from the Scottish Museum?"

"What would make you think that?" Neal balked.

"For starters your first comment wasn't _'what ring?'_ and there is nothing slight in your world unless it's 'of hand'."

"True, and actually, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding." With Peter's continued persistence, Neal conceded, "Okay. Okay. It was a misunderstanding, distraction, and, well, it got a little more embarrassing for some than planned, and it's highly likely my photograph is still circulating, and some security agents may not have forgotten the incident."

"Oh, is that all." Peter gave a mock sigh of relief.

They returned to the vehicle with little conversation, Peter mulling over the latest _Caffrey_ obstacle in their return to the US, not to mention a great deal of concern with what the infamous satchel held. Neal stowed the satchel in the trunk and moved around to get in the vehicle but not before Peter latched onto him and propelled him around to the front of the vehicle.

"Ow! You could have asked," Neal grumbled.

"Oh, I don't think so; I'm done asking, now I'm demanding." Peter set his jaw firmly.

"Fine, what are you demanding?" Neal asked contritely.

Peter glowered. "Your exit strategy." He stepped into Neal. "And don't tell me you don't have one or ... I'm cuffing you, stuffing you in the trunk and hauling your royal annoyance back to New York on our booked flight, slight misunderstanding or not."

Neal blinked innocently at Peter. "If you'd have asked..."

Peter threw his hands up in exasperation. "I shouldn't have to be interrogating you every time I need answers, Neal."

"Interrogating!"

"That's what it feels like."

"YOU make it that way," Neal retorted. "You never give me the benefit of the doubt. Back to the _English Justice_. No, no how 'bout we call it _Peter Burke Justice—Caffrey's guilty until I say otherwise._ How's that?"

"That's not fair, Neal."

Neal gritted his teeth. "No, Peter, you're not fair."

He pushed past Peter and started walking down the road.

The skies chose that moment to open and unleash a torrent of water.

Peter raised his face up, allowing the coolness of the rain to wash over him. Neal was as stubborn as he was at times. _'You can't turn an ocean liner on a dime, you have to nudge them round,'_ Reese Hughes had told him some years ago, when he was frustrated with his cases refusing to move fast enough. He had learned to nudge, to be patient. He did that a lot with Neal but then Neal would pitch and roll and throw him off kilter and his patience would be lost in the resulting swells. Neal was right: he was quick to judge, to immediately assign guilt to him, only ... only Neal was guilty,_ allegedly guilty_, of so many things and he feared with each corner they turned he would be the one sending Neal Caffrey back to prison for life. Truth be told, that thought, that possibility, scared the hell out of him.

Peter watched the steadfast, intractable back of his partner disappearing down the narrow roadway, shoulders set squarely, his arms swinging loosely without the slightest hint he was strolling through a downpour. Peter brought the vehicle up behind him. He kept pace with him for over a mile before Neal finally stopped and waited for Peter to slowly pull alongside him.

Neal glared at Peter until he was unsuccessful in suppressing a small shudder. He was dripping, reaming wet, his hair matted down, lashes fighting to blink the streams of water away. He walked around to the passenger side and slipped into his seat. He glared again at Peter, before exaggerating the placement of his seatbelt.

"I'm only getting in to avoid culpability for the accident you'll cause by driving on the wrong side of the road. Again," Neal scoffed.

Peter swerved to the left while swallowing grumbled words in some non-existent dialect. He scowled at Neal, who'd pressed his head against the backrest, eyes closed. Peter sighed and turned back to the road, although he continued to steal glances at Neal. The man was drenched through and Peter noted an occasional shiver and cursed himself for pushing, always pushing. He reached an arm behind his seat until he came in contact with the soft fleece of a travel blanket courtesy of Aisling. He shook it out and tossed it over Neal.

One wary eye opened a crack and shot an icy stare at him. Neal readjusted his position to face away from Peter. Attempts to ignore the offer of the blanket were soon thwarted by the chill, even with Peter having turned up the heat, so the blanket found its way around damp, tired shoulders.

Peter smiled lightly.

They had travelled for a good hour and a half, Neal's steady breathing suggesting at least some respite, when Peter startled. He was lost in thought, concentrating on the rain-slick road, not expecting a gruff direction to turn left from the man he thought was sleeping next to him.

"You're going to start with the leading again?" Peter grouched. He thought he'd cooled his anger but it shot to the surface before he could check it.

Neal didn't budge from his position, curled and tucked into the seat and door. Peter noted it was about as far away as Neal could position himself from him without being out of the vehicle. His breathing was heavier now with a huff at the end of every third or fourth exhale. He finally straightened himself up and looked around at the streets and buildings in front of him, flouting Peter's demanding stare.

"Straight through the roundabout and left at the lights." Neal turned to face Peter. "Thought you wanted my exit strategy?"

Peter glared at him.

"Pull up here." Neal pointed to a parking spot on the right of the one-way street and then sat, apparently distracted by the people passing on the sidewalk, until Peter relented.

"What?"

"Do you have cash?"

"Some."

"How some?"

"Couple hundred."

"Credit cards?"

"How much, Neal?"

Neal held two fingers up, wincing in expectation of the fury to come.

"You want two thousands dollars!"

"Need," Neal corrected. "I'm good for it."

Peter rolled his eyes, closed them and reached for his wallet, then abruptly stopped, his hand hovering over his pocket. "So help me, if you have my wallet or cards..."

Neal dropped his head sheepishly and held up a single card between two fingers.

"Damn it, Neal!" Peter snatched the card.

"I couldn't take the chance ..."

"... I'd say no?"

Neal contemplated the inexorable eyes fixed on him. "That ..." He dropped his eyes and rubbed both hands on his legs. "... That you wouldn't hear me out and would haul me right back to the States."

Peter held up the credit card but kept a firm grip on it as Neal took hold. "The last couple of days haven't been a picnic, Neal, but I've spent most of it _hearing you out_." Peter released his grip.

"I know," Neal spoke softly and started to exit the car.

"Anndd," Peter shook his head and smacked lips open, "you've got the pin code."

"Ahhh, yeah." Neal shrugged. "If it's any consolation, Peter, I lifted the card when you first arrived."

"Of course you did." Peter gripped the steering wheel with both hands. _Count, count,_ he reminded himself.

Four-and-a-half hours later, most of which included a much-protested visit to a local clinic, they sat in a small pub with some of Neal's purchases tucked between them. They conversed quietly over two nearly-empty pints of a local ale and the remnants of some of the best pub food Peter had ever tasted, even if there were two items he couldn't identify, and Neal refused too. The pub was filled with an eclectic grouping of people, all absorbed in their own banter. Laughter and the clinking of pints occasionally disrupted the chatter.

"Am I supposed to know what all of that is for?" Peter gestured to the bags.

"It would be better if you supposed none of it existed."

"Oh. Well then, the food was good."

"Mmm. Do you think Diana will forgive the flight changes?"

"Iffy. I could hear Jones trying to convince her the airline wouldn't take you as baggage and you'd freeze in the cargo hold."

"Ouch."

"They'll meet up with us on the way to Edinburgh. She refused to fly out tonight, won't take the chance of you _missing_ the flight."

Neal put his hands against the table. "We need to find somewhere quieter."

"Let me guess: you got the spot picked out?"

"Better, I've got it booked."

They were just outside of Lisburn and after a heated argument over the GPS not understanding the nuances over rush-hour traffic, Neal had convinced Peter to skirt Belfast. He'd left out the part about there was no way in hell that he was driving through Belfast traffic with Peter at the helm, no way. It wasn't long before they hit the A57 and hooked up with the A8 to Larne. Neal was dreading his return there; he'd lost the earlier argument to take the ferry from Belfast after making the mistake of mentioning Peter wouldn't have to be driving so far, which had immediately raised Peter's ire. Belfast hadn't been an option anyway: the ferry was booked solid, something about a rival soccer match. In the end they'd been lucky to book anything for the a.m..

It was dark when Peter parked in front of a small B&B, off a side street close to the Larne ferry terminal.

Peter grumbled at Neal as he had to duck through a couple of doorways and squeeze down a narrow passageway; surprisingly, the room was reasonably large, with a bed tucked between two windows. The symmetry of the space suggested the room was once split where the bed now sat. The one and only bed. Neal had booked two rooms but a tightly gripped elbow, and a not-on-your-life, had resulted in the move to the largest room the owner could offer. Neal hadn't expected to get much sleep anyway and had only booked the second room for Peter's benefit.

Neal found a spare blanket to cover the small antique table the room offered and laid out all of his earlier acquisitions.

Peter ran his hands over a couple of items.

"You'll leave prints," Neal curtly informed him.

"And you won't?"

"Prints hardly matter if you are the courier."

Peter grimaced, realizing that somewhere in there was a legality, or lack of, and Neal felt compelled to be protective of Peter—from what, Peter didn't know, but it left a knot in his stomach.

"Neal, you can't be involved in anything illegal."

Neal peered up from the items in front of him. "Bit late now."

"Neal!"

"Peter, look, I know you want this to all work out, but working out includes a certain level of harm."

"Of harm, to who?"

"My family." Neal sighed softly.

"This would be the same family that dragged you across the Atlantic, had you beaten, threatened to kill you, and ostracized you without a thought?"

Neal stood blinking at Peter, then narrowed his eyes, before thumping down into a chair and giving a resolute, "Yes."

Peter studied the young man, who had started assembling two pieces of three-foot steel tubing together.

"Come on, Neal, you can't be willing to sacrifice yourself in any way for people who couldn't care less about you?" Peter admonished.

Piercing blue eyes shot up at him. "Nice, Peter. I spill my guts to you and now you're going to start with the psych to save me from myself."

"I've always been trying to save you from yourself."

"Save me?" Neal shot back. "What if _I_ don't want saving?"

"Then why send the S.O.S. text? Why bother with any of this?" Peter demanded.

"Because ..." Neal faltered.

"Because you want that lifeline," Peter interjected. "The choice to use it is yours, Neal; it always has been."

Neal's lips twitched into a tight smile. "Then let me do this my way. I promise I'll explain it all but I need the time, I have to have the time, I just ... I can't do it otherwise." It was a passionate plea, desperate, a longing for everything to be okay but ultimately with no assurances that it would be.

"Neal, doing things _your way_ hasn't always met with success."

"And doing things _your way_ helped put me here," Neal retorted quietly.

Peter gave a resolute grimace. "Fair enough. So here is my one and only offer, no variance, no plausible deniability; if I'm going to see you through this, it's eyes wide open or not at all. Understood?"

Neal nodded, "Agreed. Will you let me finish this first though, before I'm too exhausted to get the details right?"

"Everything, Neal, exit strategy, all the details. One thing out and I'm shutting you down."

"I get it, Peter, and you will see the beauty in it all when we're done."

"Damn, why does the _we_ part scare the crap out of me?" Peter closed his eyes briefly with a side-to-side roll of his head.

"Nah, Peter, that's the rush of the con." Neal beamed.

Peter waved a finger at Neal. "Don't ever say that again. Never."

"You're no fun. Fine, it's not a con, it's all legit, and in the end the good guys win. And ..." Neal held a hand up. "... I swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and tell Agent Peter Burke everything he wants to know ... well just about this ... so help me..."

"So help you is right if you lie to me!" Peter cautioned with a chaser of a just try me look.

"No fun at all," Neal muttered and started assembling other pieces together.

"Is there anything I can help with?" Peter asked hesitantly

"Not right now." Neal sighed. "You may as well get some sleep; the boat leaves at four a.m.."

Yes, because sleep would be so easy. He would just tuck all the little things from the last two days—hell, the last two months—neatly into boxes, tie them with ribbon and send them to some unknown destination in the back of his mind that wouldn't impede a restful sleep. He gave Neal one last glower and propped himself up on the bed and flicked on the television. _Oh, yeah, cricket_. He didn't feel like channel surfing, so opted instead for the newspaper, _'An Phoblacht'_, he'd picked up in the small B&B entry that failed miserably at being a lobby. He'd become engrossed in an article about Sinn Féin, the _Good Friday Agreement_ and how the peace process continually failed to provide much in the way of political resolve for all of Ireland. He read several more pages before glancing over at Neal.

Neal's sleeves were rolled up, skilled fingers working effortlessly on what Peter surmised was a tube for carrying artwork, no doubt with a hidden compartment. Peter watched with amusement as Neal absently fought with a lock of hair that repeatedly fell across his eyes. Eyes he realized that were now watching him.

Peter snickered. "You need a haircut."

"You're an astute observer of the obvious." Neal rolled his eyes and stood. "Come on, I don't think the owner will be pleased if I complete this in his house, annnddd you're not gonna let me outside alone, so..."

Neal handed Peter a couple of cans of spray paint and they headed out a back door. Neal threw the tube assembly onto the driveway and ground it into the gravel with his foot. He picked it up and spray-painted it lightly with black, then set it aside to dry.

"You're aging it?"

"Less suspicious." Neal ran a band of cotton strapping across the rough bricks on the corner of the building; he'd already nicked two spots and they frayed as he worked the strap in sweeps up and down. "Easier to convince someone it's not the first time you've used it."

"Make it all seem normal and legit."

"Peter, I'm proud of you; some of my teachings are rubbing off." Neal smirked

Peter rolled his eyes and bit his bottom lip; no way was he responding to that.

Neal handed him the strap and picked the tube back up, grinding it once again into the gravel. He wiped a few loose pieces of gravel off and then roughly sanded the entire length of the tube and sprayed a dull gray on. Neal reached for the strap. Peter held it momentarily before releasing it to him.

"Don't you even go there," Neal warned, intently gauging Peter's expression.

"What? I was just considering fingerprints on material."

"Right." Neal scowled. "I'm totally convinced you _didn't_ mind the teachings comment and the thought _never, ever_ crossed your mind about administering any teachings of your own."

Peter crossed his arms. "Nope."

Neal finished his 'project', as Peter sarcastically referred to it, after Neal refused any more civil conversation. They returned to their room and Neal quickly finished assembling all the components of his project. He confirmed, rather reluctantly, that if needed one could probably hide something inside it. A dirty look provided for a proviso that in this instance it was needed for exactly that.

Neal immediately changed the subject and suggested Peter grab them some take-out from down the road and was flatly told no. Another two 'no's and one _'You already know I'm not leaving you alone'_, even with Neal hinting around it may not be a good idea for him to be roaming around Larne.

"You're not helping with the trust thing when you make it sound like you're trying to get clear of me. So stop sulking; we're not even in the city proper," Peter lectured.

"Yeah, right," Neal quipped, his eyes scanning the street in front of them. Not only had Peter dragged him out but he'd insisted on walking. The sound of rigging chiming on moored boats, salt air on a light breeze and a near-perfect moon should have created an ideal setting for a late evening stroll for take-out and a few ales. Instead Neal's pulse reverberated through his body with an uneasiness he struggled to quell.

And then it happened, or more so a hastily-chosen accomplice happened.


	31. Rides

**31 RIDES**

PREVIOUSLY: The boys are still in Larne, Northern Ireland, waiting to catch the 4am ferry to Scotland, to head home to New York. Neal was working on a metal carrying tube, one with a hidden compartment. Neal pledged to be completely honest with Peter (just this one time). Peter has dragged Neal out to get a late meal.

* * *

"Shit." Neal muttered under his breath and gave Peter an 'I told you so' look.

A rather inebriated man cast blurry eyes their way but immediately recognized Neal, as he stumbled around the corner and directly into their path.

"Nicky b'y!" James Flynn offered in the way of a boisterous greeting. "Neva spect'd ta lay eyes on yu 'ere."

"Me neither," Neal replied glumly, his eyes glancing around.

Neal cringed as Flynn slung an arm across his shoulder. Neal liked Flynn: smuggler, yes, but all-around decent, except for a propensity for getting 'nabbed', as Flynn referred to it, by the police on occasion. One occasion had already landed him in the Larne jail with Flynn. One occasion was enough, in Neal's books, to be of immediate concern.

"Gonna jus' stan' thar or y'gonna in'duse me ta yer friend?" Flynn's swaying rocked Neal back and forth with an uncomfortable pitch.

"No." It was quiet but blunt.

"Ah, ut oh," Flynn tried to bring his finger to his lips. "Shhh, d'na knows ya's workin' on sommmin."

"We're not working on anything, Flynn, just can't talk right now. You okay to get where you're going?"

"Aye, boas tie' up juss thar." Flynn gave a wobbly point towards the harbor.

Peter hoped the man had no intention of operating whatever boat he was pointing to in the distance. He was also concerned with Neal's agitation; something was off.

"All, all yer stuff, I 'livered jus' li' ya as'ed, Nicky b'y. Sve 'n zound." Peter wasn't entirely sure of all the words slurred with a thick Irish tongue but he'd caught enough and he'd caught Neal's glance at him.

"Jees', Flynn, keep it down," Neal warned.

"Shhh, dun. Bu' cou'ya lend me a cupla quid, lil light, boyo?" Flynn jarred Neal as though the action alone might cause a few coins to fall loose.

"Yeah, but you have to go. Okay?" Neal very openly handed the man some cash.

Peter watched 'Flynn' wobble down the street, although the set of his shoulders and decisive footing left Peter with the feeling the man was not quite so inebriated as he first presented. Peter turned back to Neal, who'd already started walking back up the street.

"What was that all about?"

"What?" Neal answered with such a nonchalant innocence it took Peter aback.

"You know perfectly well what?"

Neal shrugged. "I told you I didn't want to be in Larne, and certainly not out for a late night stroll to get dinner."

"You're not suggesting this was a chance encounter, purely coincidence?"

Neal shrugged. "This is a port. Flynn has a boat. I imagine he docks now and then, especially considering the cost of fuel."

They were back outside the B&B.

"Oh nooo, no, there's more to this," Peter insisted.

Neal shrugged again and started to open the door to the B&B.

Peter gaffed onto Neal's arm and spun him around to face him. The small lamp in the entry threw just enough light for Peter to see the anger flash in Neal's eyes.

"You know, I'm tired." Neal's voice was quiet but held an irate undertone. "And I haven't enjoyed being pushed and shoved around over the last month or so, or now, nor being continually treated like a—"

"Criminal," Peter had immediately interjected.

Neal gave him a rather dirty look.

And to that Peter had to add, "But you are."

Neal returned the comment with a long blank stare. Then he turned, strode into the B&B, to their room, and started a shower with Peter on his heels. Neal pointedly left the bathroom door wide open, even if it was a typical British bathroom, where you could touch all four walls from one point and the window was the smallest in existence: no escape point for a criminal. He faced Peter, swept the room with his hands, and proceed to strip down.

"Close the door, Caffrey," Peter grumbled.

"No check for contraband? Weapons?" Neal quipped snidely.

Peter glared at him. Neal knew he wouldn't even remotely like the mention of the word 'weapon'. He slammed the door shut as Neal stepped into the shower. Strangling him would have felt better. He paced, hands firmly planted on his hips. He knew Neal was trying to misdirect him, to thwart any questions with hurt indignation. It wasn't Peter who had mistreated Neal; why should he feel the least bit guilt? But he did. He did because Neal was his responsibility. Because Neal always managed to put truth into his misdirects. Peter had made demands, had grappled Neal the moment he was frustrated with the man's annoying behavior. Even cuffed him to make the point of who was in control. Treated him like a _criminal, even if he was._ The comment was uncalled for, regardless of its validity.

Neal stayed in the shower for more than forty minutes. Twice Peter fought the urge to check on him. _What was he going to do, disappear down the drain, knock through the adjoining wall?_ Peter chided himself for even having the thoughts, but such thoughts had become a normality where Neal was concerned.

Neal finally emerged, clothed, thankfully. A towel was draped over his shoulders; he rubbed part of it through his still-wet hair. _Damned, if the man still didn't look like he was in some spread for GQ._ He walked directly to Peter, who'd finally settled himself enough to sit down, and grabbed his wrist, twisting it to check the time. The blasé stance was enough to momentarily throw Peter. He yanked his arm back indignantly. Neal had already turned and was starting to collect his few belongings and the metal carrying tube, his project, from the table. Peter decided to let him play out the silent treatment.

Neal sat and slipped his shoes on—nothing close to Italian leather. He laced his fingers together, stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles and waited. He barely acknowledge Peter's presence.

Peter sighed. He got a quick wash and shave, door open. If Neal wanted to play games, Peter would oblige.

When Neal went to stand, expecting to leave, Peter stood in front of him and waved a 'no' finger at him. He tossed a small bag on the table and grabbed Neal's left wrist. Neal started to pull away but the swift intake of breath and Peter's glare stopped him short. Peter fixed the bandages around Neal's two broken fingers, handed him the prescribed meds and watched while he took them. Neal's eyes never strayed from him. His breathing was huffy and his muscles flexed with tension. _Tough if Neal didn't like it. Right now he was lucky he wasn't hog-tied and in the trunk with the infamous satchel._

They'd been sitting at the Larne Ferry terminal for more than an hour; missing the ferry was not an option. The thin line of early morning light on the horizon held a clear yellow glow, the promise of a spectacular day, at least in terms of the weather. Neal's mood however remained foul.

"You going to keep this up all day?" Peter asked casually.

Neal shrugged, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Peter tapped both fingers on the steering wheel. He was frustrated with Neal's continued indignant attitude—the nonchalant innocence, the snide comments, the hurt, aggrieved, 'tired of the way I'm treated', sullen silence. Peter took long steady breaths. He counted. _El was right, counting worked._ His fingers tapped to the rhythmic thump of his heart, then to the cadence of his thoughts.

Peter did what Peter does. He reviewed the broader picture, the basics, linking events, then drilling down to the core of each moment, each word and action. He pulled the pieces together, filling in the missing parts until he had a cohesive, unobstructed, unequivocal resolve.

"DAMN IT!" Peter slapped his palms against the steering wheel. "Stop trying to play me."

Peter caught the slightest flinch at his outburst. Neal turned, blinked blankly at him and returned to his forward gaze.

"Give it up already. You knew Flynn would be here. You set the meet. It just didn't go down the way you planned." Peter provided Neal with a heated glare.

Neal didn't budge.

"Tell me this hasn't all been a long con to get your hands on millions of dollars of art, Neal? Cause I'm figuring your family definitely had the Gardner art and you got your hands on it. Then for whatever reason you used Flynn to smuggle the art out of Northern Ireland."

Neal stared at him but his eyes held no question, no derision, no anger or upset; they just stared vacantly into him.

"And you wonder why I have trust issues with you?" Peter turned forward and watched the traffic filter onto the motor deck of the ferry. He knew Neal's eyes were fixed on him. Contemplating? Scheming? He clamped his mouth together, tight, unyielding. _Neal could stew on that for a bit._

Neal, however, was capable of stewing for an extended period of time. He reclined his car seat and lethargically pulled the travel blanket around him, nearly obscuring his face.

Peter glanced at him. He felt the tiredness creeping into him. It had been a long, trying few days. The lack of sleep and the havoc of Neal's existence drained him of the last vestiges of contention, for now. Any forced conversation with Neal would no doubt be a protracted, one-sided ordeal and likely result in something akin to a nolo contendere. Peter leaned his head back.

The ten-minute docking warning brought eyes snapping open, closely followed by the realization the passenger seat was empty.

Peter scrubbed his hands over his face. He didn't expect Neal to jump ship but with close to four hundred vehicles on board, he had lots of options. Peter let out a long sigh. He had no authority to delay the ship on docking, no one to call out, no way to search every vehicle or the ship. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, yet again. The keys rocked back and forth in the ignition like some impatient reminder that he should be moving. _Keys. Trunk. Satchel. Neal_. He opened the trunk. No satchel. _Damn it!_

"Perfect timing."

The voice came from behind Peter. He reeled around, nearly sending the two coffees Neal held flying.

"Whoa!" Neal scowled and shoved the coffees into Peter's hands. He brushed past Peter, slipped the satchel and metal carrying case off his shoulder, returned them to the trunk and slammed it shut.

"You thought I ran but figured I hid in the trunk of your car? Brilliant, Peter, your deductive reasoning is amazing at times." Neal relieved Peter of one of the coffees, a smirk dancing across his face as he took a sip.

"Get in the car. Now." Peter groaned. He considered if Neal Caffrey was systematically trying to kill him one throbbing blood vessel at a time.

The traffic flowed steadily off the ferry. Neal nursed his coffee, peering over the rim at Peter.

"You're right," he finally offered quietly.

"Right?"

"Mmm, right. I set a meet with Flynn."

Peter regarded Neal with a prudent calmness, turning his eyes forward in time to slam the brakes on before hitting the car in front of him.

"Your driving makes me nervous." Neal smiled. A soft radiant smile that suggested he knew more about the recipient than he ever should. "What? You're the one who demanded the honesty. Plus the details, exit plan, et cetera, all promised after I finished my, uh ... _project_. I'm finished."

"Fine. What did Flynn _'liver'_ for you?"

"We're heading to it now. Can we leave it at that?"

"So, no _misunderstanding_ at the Glasgow Airport?"

"I wish. Embarrassing moments created by yours truly aren't soon forgotten."

Peter's wry smile graced his face. "Okay I'll leave it at that, for now. So, what went down with Flynn?"

"Paid my account off."

"You slipped him the cash you borrowed from me?"

Neal gave Peter an incredulous scowl, "Of course not. It's the Twenty-first Century, Peter. Prepaid card. Easy to slip into a pocket."

Peter humphed.

"What?"

"So, what is it with you and Flynn? Flynn's what, a smuggler? Or more? You risk paying him off personally, even though you expect the local cops might be watching, and you trusted him to get something to wherever." Peter challenged.

"To whomever." Neal shifted in his seat to face Peter. "Tell you what Peter, I'll give you details and then you can decide whether I should be trusting Flynn in anyway, especially if you consider he _'livered'_ two text messages to you."

Peter glanced at Neal. Intense blue eyes held his briefly, before a finger jabbed toward the road ahead. Peter gave Neal a crooked smile. He nodded in agreement, eyes forward.


	32. Air

**31 AIR**

* * *

Inside of three hours they were on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

Neal had pointed out the occasional significant landmark while they clipped along the A71. He seemed to know Scotland just as well as he knew Ireland. Peter couldn't help being drawn to the countryside. At times there was a sense of falling back in time, with the little farms, villages and historic buildings. Turn your head the other way and you were in a modern bustling city with every amenity imaginable. In between Neal sucking in breaths at roundabouts and during lane changes, he started to lay out the details. Some past, some planned, some missing. Peter pointed out the flaws, or more so sizable gaps, in the information. He referred to Neal's details as moth-eaten.

They would meet up with Jones and Diana before heading into the city, partly because the traffic would still be hellish at this hour for getting into the heart of Edinburgh—one vehicle would be easier, they'd come back on the A71 and skirt the city to the airport, and Peter liked back-up—and partly because Neal really, really hoped Diana or Jones, Diana, would drive. Okay, he was actually willing to throw himself prone onto the ground and beg. Besides, shouldn't she take responsibility for renting Peter a vehicle without the automatic braking system he'd grown overly accustomed to?

Breakfast was a welcome diversion, except for Neal finding himself in a booth with Peter tight to him on his right and Diana directly across. She hadn't taken her eyes from him, even while filling Peter in on Roberts. Roberts was headed back to the US, effectively under "house" arrest, until Peter could provide a full report. Neal wasn't thrilled with the prospect of a full report. Peter could feel him bristling next to him.

"Just about the past 40 days or so, okay, nothing else," Peter reassured, not even looking up from his sizable helping of a full breakfast—bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, beans and biscuits. He'd turned down the black pudding and suggested side order of mushy peas. Neal's suggestion, of course.

"Still not happy," Neal huffed, trying not to watch Peter devour his food. He really should have gotten something to go with the coffee on the ferry.

"You'll just have to be creative, like on all the other reports you've contributed to," Peter furthered.

"They were all true." Neal sounded indignant, although a light smile touched his lips.

"Mmhmm." Peter smiled up at Jones and Diana.

"Fine, believe what you want." Neal stabbed his fried tomato.

It wasn't long after they found themselves in front of the Edinburgh College of Art. The red sandstone main building designed in the Beaux-Arts style was impressive enough. Inside, the Sculpture Court held casts of the Elgin Marbles, taken from the Parthenon Marbles of Greece. Peter was certain they were not taking the most direct route to their destination. At Neal's request, Diana and Jones remained in the Sculpture Court, much to the chagrin of Jones and Diana. Stopping to point out some of the room's incredible history resulted in a sore look from Diana, who bluntly advised she was not going to be making any new flight arrangements.

Neal and Peter left them there, discussing not the art, but the name of the little pub they had passed on the way in. Jones was adamant that "Wee" should not appear in the name of any drinking establishment.

Neal and Peter wound down several corridors, through a courtyard, and then up a couple of flights of stairs. Neal finally knocked on a door marked 'Prof. Ruairidh Buchanan'. A slight, stately-looking man, maybe in his early sixties, with an absolutely unkempt shock of white hair, greeted them with the warmest of smiles.

"Neal! Come in, come in." The man spoke almost hurriedly. He ushered them in, well, more pulled Neal in, with a suspicious eye on Peter.

The doorway was sided by two overflowing bookshelves, then several stacked boxes, which created a hallway of sorts, before opening into a rather spacious, high-ceilinged office-come-library-come-art gallery. As soon as they cleared the clutter, the man brought Neal into a tight embrace.

"Heavens, lad, I thought you'd never grace these halls again." He frowned, then smiled. "Who's your friend?"

"Rory, this is Agent Peter Burke." Neal nodded his head towards Peter. "Peter, Professor Rory Buchanan, of History, Classical Art and Archaeology."

The two eyed each other up and shook hands.

"Agent of what?" Rory queried.

Peter opened his mouth but Neal interjected, "FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York Office. Peter heads his own White Collar team. We have a very high clearance rate."

"We?" Rory seemed amused.

"Yes, we," Peter cut in. "Neal consults for me, one of the best."

"Ah, too bad then."

"Excuse me?" Peter wasn't sure about the professor.

"It's ..." Neal started.

"... Okay," Rory finished, an arm slung around Neal. He jostled him affectionately. "Sounds like I have no chance of convincing Neal to come back to teach a few classes."

"Teach? Why am I not surprised." Peter threw his hands up. "Your name never showed up on any academic rosters for Britain, though?"

"You looked here?" Neal sounded both surprised and pleased.

"I had your shoe size, two other locations for academic endeavors; why wouldn't I look for similar things when you went abroad?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

"He knows you." Rory nodded towards Peter, then suddenly, "You got caught! I'm sorry; that couldn't have been easy. I thought you were more likely dead than nicked. Oh, ah, the girl of course. By you, Agent Burke?"

"Yes." Peter was taken aback by the professor's knowledge of Neal and how quickly he put things together.

"Smart." Rory smiled. "Enough to get ahead of you, Neal. I like this man."

Professor Ruairidh Buchanan had come to stand in front of Agent Peter Burke. He held out two tumblers of Scotch in one hand for Peter and Neal. Then rolled the third in his hands thoughtfully. He smirked at Neal and raised his glass.

"Here's to you, as good as you are,  
And here's to me, as bad as I am;  
But as good as you are, and as bad as I am,  
I am as good as you are, as bad as I am.

"Cheers, Neal." Rory shot the liquor back. Peter followed suit.

Neal raised his glass halfway and muttered something about being outnumbered. He had no doubts Peter would be in contact with Rory in the near future. He also knew Rory would give him nothing more than what would be spoken there today. Neal tipped his glass back and gave Kate a silent toast. He hadn't the heart to tell Rory of her death. He'd never met Kate but Neal couldn't help talking about 'the girl' back then.

"Neal taught here?" Peter savored the smooth liquor flowing over his tongue.

"He did but you'll have to get the details from Neal."

"_Details_. Right." Peter rolled his eyes.

Rory snorted, "Silver tongue. Sealed lips."

Rory gave Neal a wink.

"It's okay; Peter knows about the delivery." Neal sighed.

"Wasn't sure. Didn't want to put you on the spot. Not sure who trounced you."

"Peter? Peter's all Boy Scout, unless you mess with his wife." Neal chortled.

"Or my team," Peter added, his wry smile directed at Neal.

Neal contemplated the comment. _He wondered what he'd missed. He'd missed something, beyond Peter working to bring him home_. He squinted his eyes and twitched his lips into an unsure smile, then beamed at Peter.

"Mmm, courier was Irish. Ryan?" The professor, as far as Peter was concerned, made remarkably intuitive leaps, and left out details that to anyone else would be annoying. Neal took them in stride.

"The last couple," Neal replied, seemingly unmoved; his head, however, was bowed, as he turned a small statue on the professor's desk over.

The professor raised an eyebrow at the response. He looked at Peter, then Neal. "Eighteenth Century. Not for your pockets. Trip home wasn't a good one then?"

"When were they ever?" Neal answered quietly. He set the little black statue upright and offered a haphazard smile to Rory.

The return look was all heart and soul of a father concerned for a wayward child. "Your delivery's in my study."

So, the man had a cavernous office filled with books, fine art and numerous chunks of stone and pottery, all of an unknown value, and a study too! Plus, he knew Neal, knew some family history, and more importantly knew of Neal's _activities_, and was willing to help him, apparently without question. Yet the man held what appeared to be a significant position at the college. Once again Neal had managed to provide hints of his past to Peter; however, as usual, each door opened led to more dark, twisting corridors.

"Here."

Rory showed them into a windowless room. It held a large table in the center that could be lit from underneath, as well as above. A long, high workbench wrapped around two sides, with a couple of large compound microscopes sitting at one end. The remaining walls held numerous artifacts on sets of ceiling-high shelves. Rory unlocked a large wooden cabinet, then the Dudley safe within. He pulled a packing tube out, and a large envelope.

"I don't suppose..." Rory waved a hand at the tube Neal now held.

Neal locked eyes with Peter, but spoke to Rory, "Sorry. Just better that you don't know." He'd have added _for now_ for Peter. "Rory, maybe Peter would like another drink."

It was anything but a subtle hint. Peter started to open his mouth but the professor beat him to it.

"Ah, you're not exactly a free man, are you lad? Missed that. Agent Burke, my apologies, I don't know what arrangement you have with Neal, but I can assure you if he brought you here openly, he's placed a trust in you that shouldn't be held lightly."

The professor's sincerity left Peter wishing he knew _oh so much more about one Neal Caffrey, wishing he understood exactly why Neal trusted him, as he once said, 'Above all others.' And how the hell did the professor come up with Neal not being an entirely free man, based on what information? Even suggesting the 'not exactly free' should have been obvious._ An interesting man indeed, one that would keep Peter's mind whirring for a while.

"Yeah. Yeah sure. Won't hurt, I guess." He turned, watching Neal out the corner of his eye. The door groaned shut without apology.

It wasn't long before Neal rejoined them. He casually slung the metal carrying tube he brought in over his shoulder; he passed the now-sealed envelope to Peter, and extended the delivery tube to Rory.

"I don't think it will disappoint." Neal smiled, then gestured to Peter that he was set to leave.

It struck Peter then as to how much art and cultural artifacts in museums and collections were contested by individuals and countries as 'stolen' or otherwise inappropriately obtained. While the college had casts of the Elgin Marbles, the British Museum had the real Parthenon Marbles and the Greek government had long been arguing for their return. So, an allegiance between a thief and an art historian might not be such a stretch.

Rory shook Peter's hand. "My thanks in advance, Agent Burke; I will assume you will be keeping an eye on the lad for a while yet."

"I will, and 'Peter' is fine." He passed the professor, Rory, one of his business cards. "You never know."

Neal rolled his eyes at the exchange and offered his own hand. Rory instead pulled Neal into another embrace.

"Be good, Neal." He smiled broadly and whispered in Neal's ear, "(And if you can't be good at least make sure you don't get caught. Again.)"

Neal held up two fingers.

"Really?"

Neal nodded and beamed at the man. "_'Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?'_ "

"Sun Tzu. Go now, before I have Agent ... Peter, frisk you. I'll have to do a complete inventory, again," Rory chided, as they headed out the door.

Neal headed back through the maze of halls and galleries at a fairly quick pace.

"Why the rush?" Peter called after him.

Neal stopped, gave him a momentary are-you-seriously-asking-me-that-question look and continued.

Peter shot a couple more questions at Neal without results. He finally got his attention at the far entry to the Sculpture Court by literally stepping in front of him and impeding his travel. Peter raised his hands to suggest he had no intention of being physical but nor was Neal going to pass. Peter repeated his first question as to why the rush? Neal simply shrugged and said they had a plane to catch. And besides wanting to get home, he also didn't want to p' Diana off by missing the plane.

Neal grimaced when Diana came up behind him. His attention had been on Peter, and a section of the Parthenon Frieze that rippled above Peter's left shoulder. The frieze was a carved cavalcade of soldiers on horseback, muscles taut from reining in agitated steeds hot from battle.

"Caffrey, I hope you're not taking my name in vain." Diana crossed her arms.

"Never. I was in the process of reminding Peter how insistent you were at ensuring a timely departure."

"Right, 'cause you are incredibly punctual and Peter needs constant reminding to improve his lackadaisical time management."

Neal smiled at her.

"Jones is by the front door, boss, trying to impress a young Trove glass sculptor, who I'm afraid has spent more of her time watching me."

"Well, you are a work of art, Diana." Diana scowled. Neal grinned, undeterred, and pointed to a beautifully-carved statue at the end of the court.

"Nice try, Caffrey." Diana rolled her eyes. "No bows. No arrows. Diana was the Goddess of the Hunt."

"See, not only a work of art but aptly-named too."

"Car, Neal," Peter interrupted. "Before any arrows are shot."

They picked up Jones. The young woman he'd been speaking to flushed as Diana passed. Neal smirked and quickly pointed out to Jones why his efforts were futile.

Fortunately, even when Diana seemed peeved, it was never reflected in her driving. Unfortunately, Neal only got to drive with her to the outskirts of the city before becoming Peter's unnerved passenger once again. It wasn't that Peter's driving was horrible; it was simply that driving to the left required concentration and Neal was a continual source of distraction.

The airport itself offered no challenges.

Neal was adamant about carrying whatever he had through customs without flashing credentials. _'Easier to get out, easier to get in. No questions asked, no suspicions raised,'_ Neal repeated several times. He did however agree that if any problems arose Peter could flash his badge and rescue him.

There was a certain elegiac air to Neal as he watched Scotland and then the tip of Ireland disappear as the plane rose and banked to the Northwest.


	33. Everything

**33 EVERYTHING**

PREVIOUSLY: Neal, Peter, Jones and Diana have all made it to the plane and are headed back to New York. Peter's still a little anxious about going through Customs per Neal's method. Neal wanted the artwork to remain low-key, as per their agreement made in the little Irish B&B.

* * *

Breathe, what could happen in an airport? – _Everything!_

Exiting Scotland had gone smoothly, and precisely according to Neal's details. Apparently, the envelope he'd received from Professor Rory Buchanan contained: Letters of Authenticity, which included a description of each piece and the artist's name (both added by Neal); Proof of Provenance; and a receipt of purchase, which also repeated the information that the artwork within the metal carrying tube was all from within the EU Member States, less than 50 years old, and individually, under the Threshold Value for export.

Everything was approved without any of the artwork being removed. More effort went into assuring the tube held no threat to airline security. No hidden compartment was revealed, no stolen artwork popped out. Peter was impressed. He also wondered how many times Neal had walked through customs with _'stolen'_ artwork.

Entry back into the US followed a similar path. It was the responsibility of the Importer of Record to use 'reasonable care to enter, classify and determine the value of imported merchandise'. Neal provided the same documents and a particular one that qualified the artwork as duty-free under HTSUS 9701—painted and executed entirely by hand. The two customs officers, however, wanted to see the art.

Neal smiled and pulled a pair of soft white gloves from his pocket. Peter was politely but firmly informed he would have to wait in the main area as he had already cleared Customs. He was anything but happy with having Neal out of his sight. _Breathe, what could happen in an airport? – Everything!_

Peter's wait wasn't long. Both customs officers emerged from the private screening area, sans Neal.

"Where is he?" Peter strode towards the two officers, flashing his badge.

"Sir." One officer put a hand up to Peter.

"Agent Burke, FBI. Where is the man I was traveling with?" Peter was nearly through the first door, and dismayed to find himself entering a corridor with numerous opaque doors on the far side. "Where?"

"Twelve." The female officer pointed right. "He's repack..."

Diana and Jones had come up behind Peter. "Boss?" "Peter?"

"Just in case, start finding the nearest exit points." Peter was already halfway down the hall and picking his pace up. _Eight. Nine. Ten. He hated counting. Twelve_. He burst through the door and immediately regretted doing so.

Neal was twisting the cap on the metal carrying tube back up and gave Peter a questioning look.

"I thought..." Neal started, then caught Peter's harried expression. "No. No. I gave you my word. You said _you'd see me through this_, but you... You know I could have gotten out of Ireland without you. Left Roberts behind. Disappeared."

Neal shoved past Peter. "Nice. Thanks, Peter... Jones! Diana!"

Jones and Diana were there on the full run with one of the customs officers in tow.

"Boss?" Diana looked over Neal's shoulder at Peter.

Peter shook his head.

Neal turned and scowled back at Peter. He turned back to face Diana and Jones.

"Could you please escort me out of here, and explain to the customs officer behind you that I'm actually just doing my job, consulting for the FBI." He smiled at the officer and spoke directly to him. "My apologies, my _associate_ here is worried because I was threatened after identifying some forgeries for him in Scotland."

Diana and Jones gaped at Neal, then Peter, then Neal.

Diana picked up the cue and started walking back to the main door with the officer.

"I'm so sorry; it's been a trying few days. We're all travel-weary, and on edge after Mr. Caffrey was threatened. Hard to get good people." She leaned into the man and cast an eye back at Neal, "And, some are a little pretentious."

The officer snickered and looked back at Neal, who was flanked by Jones and Peter. For extra emphasis, Peter patted Neal's shoulder and offered a concerned, "Glad you're safe."

Peter latched onto Neal once they were well clear of customs.

Other travelers flowed around them, more perturbed by any obstacle obstructing their route than the exchange between the two men. Diana and Jones stood back a bit. They watched the exchange, as well as the ebb and flow of people—more out of habit than anything—for possible threats.

"What part of _'You're not leading!'_ didn't you get?" Peter sibilated through gritted teeth.

"Oh, the part when the _leader_ acts like an idiot and nearly gets his consultant held by Homeland Security," Neal shot back with icy rancor.

"Customs."

"And?"

"No one's holding you."

"No thanks to you, Peter."

"You called me your _associate_?" Peter carped. It was the word Peter had used to describe Neal's partner in the switching scam with the stolen Rembrandt.

Neal glared at Peter. "_Associates_ are concerned with their own interests. _Partners_ have each other's back."

"I have your back, Neal." Peter dropped his tone.

"Do you?" Neal asked solemnly. Before Peter could respond, Neal shoved the metal carrying tube and satchel into Peter's chest. "It's all yours, but let me explain before you open it. The satchel is mine though, always has been."

"You going to tell me what's in the satchel, besides what looks to be paintbrushes?" Peter hastily added, "Scanner at the airport, but I couldn't see everything."

"Good." Neal tipped his head with a smarmy grin. "Can we please go now?"

Peter closed his eyes briefly, then motioned for Diana and Jones to follow.

With only carry-on bags, their departure from the airport would be relatively quick, a taxi ride to the office, log everything in, home. Nope, still had to deal with Caffrey; that would entail a debriefing to Hughes, the Marshals and the tracker, and 'securing' him until the higher-ups and Marshals Service was once again satisfied. _Damn!_ Peter rubbed a hand across his face. Always something to do.

Apparently, the Marshals Office was a little on the impatient side.

Hughes had removed the 'Wants' for Neal from the system, once Peter had confirmed they had him. However, the Marshals obviously had maintained a 'Flag' for him as a 'Person of Interest' with immediate notification to the New York Marshals Service. The 'Hit' came via Customs, during their delay at the second screening point.

Now three Marshals stood in front of them. A fairly snarky Marshal identified himself to Peter and informed him that they were taking custody of Caffrey.

Neal was roughly frisked, cuffed and removed to an airport security office despite Peter's continued protests that Neal was in his custody. They had been anything but subtle, with two Marshals on each side of Neal firmly clasping his arms and propelling him forward. Neal twisted to try and keep his eyes on Peter, as though he might suddenly disappear down the rabbit hole.

"He's still a flight risk, and until there's a tracker back around his leg, he's in our custody," the Marshal growled at Peter.

Peter chose his words carefully, kept his stance light. He needed their cooperation, as Neal, technically, was still within the Federal Prison system under the Marshals Service.

The Marshal would not budge. He secured Neal in one of the airport security interview rooms. It was a stark, claustrophobic room with a table in one corner and two chairs. They shoved Neal into one of the chairs, secured the door, and for good measure, the two other Marshals physically blocked the door. They also blocked the one view into the room, through the small glass slit in the door.

Peter continued arguing with the one Marshal. Apparently, if Peter hadn't been there, Neal would have gone directly back to prison. Peter called Hughes requesting he contact his counterpart at the Marshals Service. It didn't take long for Hughes to get answers.

As it was, they were waiting for a tracker, and then the higher-ups could make their decisions once all the reports were completed. Basically, Neal Caffrey was not going to wander around the US freely on their watch. The Marshals Service had no intention of taking any responsibility for Neal's activities by failing to follow their own protocols. Seems they were still peeved over Neal slipping them on the elevator, even though the reasons why had been explained, after the fact. Not to mention several prior unauthorized jaunts that Peter had smoothed over.

The tracker didn't take long to arrive.

"We're just doing our jobs. We like to keep _our_ prisoners secured one way or another." The Marshal held up the tracker and smiled smugly at Peter.

The conceited look was wiped off as he entered the empty security room. Peter didn't like the man one bit but he had to concede the man was quick. He turned around to Peter and plunked the tracker in his hand.

"As you said, Agent Burke, Neal Caffrey is in _your_ custody."

Peter snorted. "Fine. No APB. No one looking for him until I give the word."

_Everything! Everything could happen in an airport_. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and calmly directed Jones and Diana.

"Start with the usual calls, the usual locations, the usual suspects. I'll call Hughes, again, and let him know the Marshals have returned custody of Caffrey to us."

Peter figured Neal had heard the more heated parts of the conversation with the Marshals. Hints of prison, jurisdiction and custody probably sent icy chills up Neal's spine. Still he... Peter stopped the tapping of his fingers against the metal carrying tube Neal had pushed into his hands. He closed his eyes and slowly undid the lid.

"Damn it!"


	34. Explanations

**34 EXPLANATIONS**

* * *

Empty.

The room.

The metal carrying tube.

Both empty.

Peter sniggered. Everything with the Marshals had happened so fast, he hadn't noticed that they'd used a similar nylon zip cuff to the one he'd taken to Ireland. There wasn't any hint of tampering, yet the cuffs sat neatly on the table, next to the chair that was pressed into the far corner of the room on top of the table. The corner also provided the best support once through the ceiling. A suspended ceiling, which offered a potential escape route to anyone desperate enough. The room was designed for temporary detainment, not holding someone.

Peter put all his now-standard "Locate Caffrey" protocols into effect.

Peter spoke with El. She wasn't impressed, first with the Marshals Service, then with Neal. Somehow she managed to smooth Neal's actions over, suggesting he must have a reason. Peter had scoffed and suggested a couple of hundred million was a reason. El told him to count. Peter countered he hated counting.

Jones and Diana had spoken to June, both her granddaughters, and Sara. All negative. All worried.

Peter finally got through to Mozzie and received a text with a meeting location.

It turned into more of a diatribe by Mozzie than a meeting. Mozzie was irate, enough so that he never brought up a single conspiracy theory or called Peter 'Suit'. He just demanded the return of Neal, as though Peter had made him disappear.

"You wanted the new and improved Neal Caffrey. You couldn't just be satisfied with him consulting for you. Take responsibility for your actions, Burke! Return Neal."

Mozzie made it sound like he meant body and soul. He glared at Peter and stomped out of the small community garden, Mozzie's chosen meeting place. Peter stared after him but remained sitting on the slatted wooden bench. He was still no further ahead with finding Neal.

Peter hadn't even brought up the Gardner Artwork to Mozzie. He really couldn't say anything to anyone about it. At no time had he seen it. At no time had Neal ever confirmed having it. He hadn't seen what Neal brought through customs. The only thing was Rembrandt's Storm on the ea of Galilee, and Neal had insisted it was never in Ireland and was safe.

Peter let out a long slow breath. He really didn't want to believe Neal had conned him. _Why go to all the trouble? If he had the artwork he could have gone anywhere, unless he wanted back in the States for some reason, for something bigger. Something bigger, and something Neal coveted, like Rembrandt's Storm, valued at over fifty million US dollars._ He seriously considered throttling Neal if he ever laid hands on him again.

Peter took long steady breaths to calm his frayed nerves and quell the increasing throbbing in his head. He finally moved from the bench he occupied in the garden. There was something about the place that felt comfortable and safe. He pushed open the tall metal gate, then stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned to face the wall he had his back to the entire time.

A light mist had started to fall but the late afternoon sun still pushed through. It created a soft warm cast across the Northeast wall. A warm smile slowly emerged as Peter's eyes followed a small stone path, flanked on either side by an assortment of greenery and flowers. The path and flowers didn't end at the wall but seamlessly merged into it, or rather the mural painted nearly the full length of the garden. The edges of the mural faded into the old brick wall of a building, lending a surreal feeling to the farthest points. The perspective literally pulled the viewer to the center, where Peter now stood. The mist and light made the mural all the more vivid. The droplets of water clinging to the wall seemed to glisten and dance on the flowers and leaves like the real ones before it.

Peter's spirits lifted.

Peter pushed through the flowers pressed to the wall until he reached the far corner and found the mural -sized signature, perfectly executed, of Claude Monet. Only this signature had a period behind it, or more so, a circle nearly filled with a stylized set of initials—NC.

When Peter exited the small garden, he noted a man of short stature pressed into an alcove across the road. Mozzie stepped forward onto the tree-lined street and nodded curtly at Peter, satisfied apparently that Peter had received the intended message. Mozzie then turned and hustled off to some unknown destination.

As the sun started to set, Peter made his way back to the Bureau. He hoped someone had news, anything, as long as he didn't have to call the Marshals Service to confirm Caffrey really was out of his custody. He let Hughes know he was on his way in, before the man left for the day. He wasn't looking forward to reporting to his boss, but knew Hughes would want a face-to-face, only so he could determine how best to explain this latest turn of events to his superiors.

Peter hadn't even set foot through the glass entry door before Hughes barked his name from the top of the stairs. Not even the typical two-finger jab accompanied it. Hughes just stood in his door waiting for Peter to enter.

"Sir. Reese. I am sorry; I know I shouldn't have trus—" Peter caught the movement of the other person in the room getting to their feet and swung around to face them.

"Shouldn't have trusted me." Neal finished somberly. "Guess I made the wrong move then."

Neal reactively stepped back as Peter swiftly closed the short distance between them. There was nowhere to go. He cringed when Peter stepped within arm's length, half expecting a fist to connect with his jaw. Instead, he found himself being jarred in a tight embrace.

"Damn it, you'll be the death of me," Peter grumbled affectionately.

Hughes let the smallest of grins show and shook his head at Caffrey's shocked look. Neal had stalked into his office less than twenty minutes ago, plunked himself on the small couch without invite, and bluntly informed him that he needed to give Peter something before the Marshals took him. Hughes had eyed the bedraggled-looking man on his couch. The show of confidence seemed to drain out of him once he'd sat down. A worn defeated air swept across his features; it exposed the darkness under his eyes, the still-noticeable bruising down the side of his face, and, a sense of loss.

Hughes had said little to him. He knew Peter was on his way and decided to leave this current 'Caffrey mess' entirely in his hands. The only thing he'd found himself doing was strolling out of his office, requesting Jones to call off anyone that needed to be, and obtaining a glass of water for Caffrey. He'd dismissed the astonished looks from the bullpen with a wave of his hand. When he held the glass of water in front of Caffrey, he thought the man was going to jump out of his skin, before recognition set in, and he took the glass. After that Caffrey sat with his hands pressed down between his knees, head down, with a foot rocking nervously.

Hughes cleared his throat.

Peter relinquished his hold on Neal but still rested his right hand across the nape of Neal's neck. He faced back to Reese, a little abashed by his unexpected show of emotion.

"I'm—" Peter started.

"No. You'll only be sorry if you don't get _that_ thorn out of my side. He's all yours." Hughes grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed out the door. "Oh, and lock my door when you're done, Agent Burke."

Peter grinned. He liked Reese Hughes. He turned back to Neal.

Neal swallowed. Peter was all back to business.

"How the hell did you get here?"

"Walked."

"Walked! You walked? From the airport?"

"What, you'd be happier if I'd picked someone's pocket for cab fare?"

"Don't start with me, Neal." Peter paced. "Why run, only to come here? Here. Hughes' office."

"It's the only one with blinds."

Peter glowered.

"Where else was I going to go?"

Peter gave him a serious look. "Why run?"

"I couldn't take the chances with..." Neal paused. "Why should I trust you, Peter?"

Peter brought his face within inches of Neal's but spoke softly, "Where's the art, Neal?"

"Safe."

"But you're not." Peter narrowed his eyes. "I like challenges, but I'm tired of this one. Where's the art?"

"Here." It was barely a whisper.

"What?"

"Here. You have it." Neal sighed.

"How the hell can I have the art?" Peter's frustration boiled over.

"I gave it to you at the airport. Well, part of —"

"You gave me an empty carrying tube. I had the thing cut open. Empty. Completely empty, Neal."

"Peter." Neal waited until Peter stopped gnashing his teeth. He held up his jacket.

Peter eyed him and finally snatched the jacket from him. "What am I suppo—"

"Now you have all the artwork."

"I don't u—"

"Where's my satchel?" Neal started out of Hughes' office.

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter snagged Neal's arm.

Neal twisted free and faced Peter. "Tell me you have the satchel?"

"My office." Peter scowled.

"Good." Neal retrieved the satchel from Peter's office. He nearly bumped into Jones and Diana, with his attention on the satchel, as he headed towards the conference room.

They'd been standing aside, waiting on Peter's direction. Neal looked up at them, and without skipping a beat, smiled and asked them if they wouldn't mind clearing the nearly-empty office and keep everyone out; Peter would explain after, but it was best they stayed clear of the conference room themselves.

Peter rolled his eyes and gave them a nod, before he gaffed onto the scruff of Neal's neck and guided him into the conference room.

"Explain now?"

"I told you I would." Neal furrowed his brows indignantly. "No need to get pushy."

"Caffrey."

"Fine." Neal snatched his jacket back from Peter and laid it on top of the satchel. He settled into one of the chairs and rocked back.

"It's not always easy keeping promises, Peter." Neal sighed. "It's even harder when two promises conflict with each other."

Peter remained neutral, his eyes intently trained on Neal.

Neal let out a pensive breath, dropped his shoulders and pressed his hands between his knees. "My brother, Ryan, needed an influx of cash. The recent financial crisis hit some of his investments hard. And, well, the family's other enterprises offered some options. Namely me, or at least my specific skills. I copied several new pieces for him. I was crating them when things came to a head with Zantele. Zantele was set to put a bullet in me when Roberts stepped between us. Roberts saved my life."

Neal stopped and looked up at Peter.

"You likely saved his," Peter offered quietly. He sat on the edge of the table, side on, with one leg still firmly placed on the ground.

"Yeah," Neal whispered and continued. "I'd already taken the opportunity to switch the new pieces out for the real ones. I was planning on skipping as soon as I finished crating the art."

"And what were you planning on doing with the art?" Peter asked quietly.

"I wasn't. I didn't have a ... I just wanted out." Neal closed his eyes briefly and held his emotions in check. "I wasn't trying to run some con on you, Peter. Taking the art, the stolen art, back, just ... just seemed like ... like..."

"Like the right thing to do." Peter's smile touched his eyes.

Neal stared up at Peter. Then he set his shoulders square, and with a hint of defiance, breathed out a "Yes."

"So, you liberated the Gardner Art from your Uncle Max, had your buddy Flynn smuggle it to Professor Rory Buchanan, and...?"

"You really don't get this, do you, Peter?"

"Enlighten me." Peter spread his hands open in submission.

"One. What sort of idiot would put a fortune's worth of art in the hands of someone like Flynn?"

"You mean in the hands of a known criminal." Peter smirked.

Neal scowled, then grinned. "Are you insulting me, or calling yourself an idiot?"

"Go on." Peter pursed his lips.

"Two. Rory's a good man, but I guarantee he had a look at the contents of my packing tube the moment Flynn delivered it to him. Who'd trust a thief, right?" Neal answered the question Peter was holding back, "Rory would do near enough anything for me. But he's a cautious man; he'd check to make sure it held something I'd have or something that wasn't so hot that it would bring the wrong people around."

Peter nodded.

"Three. What do I do best, Peter?"

"What sort of loaded question is that?" Peter scoffed.

"Okay, okay. Something I do all the time, that you constantly complain about?"

"Lie."

Neal rolled his eyes.

"Hey, you asked; I just answered."

"Fine. Misdirect."

"Misdirect? You mean Flynn, the delivery, the metal carrying tube was all a misdirect?"

Neal nodded.

"Why run?" Peter furrowed his brow.

"Peter, exactly where do you think the artwork is?"

"Well it's not ... Damn it! You said you had the Rembrandt on you the first time I brought you in for questioning." Neal continued to nod approvingly at him. "You've had the artwork on all the time?"

"Some of it. I like to hedge my bets." Neal stood and pulled the satchel to him and carefully emptied the contents: Some of the clothing Peter had brought him; an old flat wooden box with paintbrushes, pencils, pastels and some other small art tools—he'd watch them check it through screening at the airport; three artist's sketch pads; and a watercolor block. Neal stopped. "Peter, once I show you this, I know there's no going back, but you did agree to see me through this, to protect my family. You'll still do that, right?"

"You want me to sit on the Gardner Artwork for a year?" Peter was still surprised that Neal was pushing for his request.

"Yes. Only you won't be sitting."

"How so?"

"You'll need the time to collect evidence."

"Evidence? On what?" Peter snapped.

"The people my brother sold stolen artwork to." Neal smiled.

"You have...?"

"Yep, names, countries and which pieces. They'll all be paying top dollar for what they think is the real thing."

"The buyers will have them authenticated, but you think they'll pass, because...?"

"My brother isn't stupid. He brought Zantele and Roberts into the picture, not just to get his hands on me, but all the necessary materials to get the forgeries authenticated. Roberts had access to countless amounts of confiscated art supplies used by forgers—canvas, paints, paper, inks, pigments, you name it—they brought everything they needed to Ireland with them. I did the rest."

"You forged them, Neal. How am I supposed to keep you out of it?"

"It isn't a con when it's a sting." Neal beamed. "We. You have the originals. You follow things through, you'll have the forgeries too, the buyers, the charges, the glory."

"I don't do my job for glory, Neal."

"I know." Neal continued to beam. "But it's fun sometimes. Yes?"

"Yes." Peter smiled back at him. He had to give a bit somewhere. "There are still a lot of logistics to work out. I'd still have to sit on the art for at least a year."

"Yeah, but it would be so worth it." Then Neal's expression turned to one of graveness Peter had never seen. "I need you to do this for me, Peter: to wait the year, to let this play out. I know you want to go after my brother too. But please. Please don't go there. Let it go. You have the artwork. You'll have the buyers and my forgeries. Technically, you could lock me up forever. You already have me back in custody."

"Neal..." Peter dropped his head down.

"Peter."

Peter sighed and stared into pensive, deep pools of blue. "Your family doesn't deserve you."

Neal let the tightly-held breath finally escape. "Thank you."

"I can't guarantee how this will turn out though."

"Understood."

"You could end up back in prison." Peter held up a hand. "Of course, I'd likely be your cellmate, if this goes sour."

"Umm. In that case, could I retract everything I've said, collect my—"

"I have the Marshals on speed dial." Peter cocked his head and put his hands on his hips.

"Fine," Neal grouched but he couldn't hide the mischief dancing in his eyes. "Want to see the art?"

"Uh, yeah!" Peter rolled his eyes with an exaggeration annoyance.

"In fairness I don't have all the pieces. Only what I was given to copy. No Chinese Ku, no finial, no Flinck. I never liked his work anyway, always on the—"

"Caffrey!"

Peter watched in amazement as Neal revealed not one, but three, hiding places—in his jacket, the satchel and the watercolor block. He fished out the soft gloves again and placed the artwork over the conference room table. Rembrandt's _A Lady and Gentleman in Black_; Vermeer's _The Concert;_ Manet's _Chez Tortoni;_ Edgar Degas' _La Sortie de Pelage, Cortege aux Environs de Florence, Program for an Artistic Soiree_ (both pieces), and _Three Mounted Jockeys._ Neal then carefully removed Rembrandt's _Self-Portrait_ from a fourth hiding place. The small etching could have been carried in a wallet and no one would have been the wiser.

"Incredible," Neal mused to himself. "It really needs to be held in something larger."

Neal laughed, when he turned to find out why Peter hadn't made one of his usual comments. Peter stood gaping, spellbound by what had been set in front of him. Neal had no idea how much Peter's amazement was with him and not the artwork.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Neal nudged Peter.

"You have no idea," Peter replied wistfully.

Neal blinked, furrowing his brow slightly with a questioning glance at Peter.

Peter ignored the look. He instead started to rattle off the thoughts running through his mind. "We need to get this stored safely. I hope you're prepared for a long night. El's going to kill me. And yes, I get why you ran from the Marshals, besides not wanting to go back to prison; you couldn't take the chance of losing the artwork or getting caught with it on you. Next time call me. Never mind, just avoid a next time. What did you do with the artwork you showed customs?"

"I..." Neal gave Peter a dirty look. "Nice try, Peter. You didn't have to couch that question in some half rant. What would you call that, an anacoluthic ramble?"

"You've spent way too much time with Mozzie. What did you show customs and where did it go?" Peter persisted.

"You know, you can be obstinate at times, Peter," Neal quirked.

"Tenacious, and you didn't answer."

"Do I have to?" Neal asked hopefully.

"You've come this far."

"Yes, but it has nothing to do with..." Neal rolled his eyes at Peter's sardonic expression. "Fine. Technically, I stole them. No one will ever report them missing. And, if my Uncle Max realizes they are missing, he'll give Ryan permission to come beat the piss out of me."

Peter flickered his eyes. "What?"

Neal huffed. "I told you I used to paint with my mother. My uncle had several of her paintings. I took a couple... What? I left copies of the ones she did. Just not ... the ones I did with her ... and took. I didn't exactly have them hidden when the Marshals cuffed me. I couldn't take the chance. I didn't ... There would have been questions. And my name, and hers, and..."

"Neal. Neal! It's okay. I get it. I'm obstinate." Peter shook his head in a steady yes. He squeezed Neal's shoulder. "Come on. I'll send Diana and Jones for take-out, the necessary supplies, and see if we can get this done before morning."

It was four am by the time they'd finished. Peter sent Diana and Jones home, with a message to Hughes they'd be off tomorrow and back in for Monday. He walked both of them out of the office, thanking them again for going above and beyond. He turned his attention back to Neal. Neal had found his way into Peter's office, to his favorite chair, and now had his head cradled in his arms on the desk. Well, at least he didn't have his feet on the desk.

"Neal. Come on, it's time to go. Get up." Peter prodded him.

Neal stood with a tired sway.

"I need your ankle."

Neal propped his foot up on the chair and looked into apologetic brown eyes.

Peter snapped the tracker into place. The little green light blinked into existence. "I have to notify the Marshals once you're at June's. You'll be on close house arrest for at least a week, until all the paperwork is done and the higher-ups satisfied. Okay?"

"Just like old times, Peter," Neal offered. Even flat-out exhausted the charm of his smile wasn't lost.


	35. FAITH

**35 FAITH**

* * *

It had been eleven days on house arrest. Neal had spent three of those days answering a barrage of hostile questions, first from OPR about Roberts, then from Hughes' superiors, and finally, from the Marshals Service. They had eventually, although reluctantly, agreed to reinstate the supervised work release with no changes or charges. Fortunately, a steady stream of visitors had helped to reduce the monotony of the other eight days.

Peter was on his way to pick him up. First day back to the office.

Neal readjusted his tie and slicked back his damp hair. The bruises had disappeared from his face and most of his battered body. A couple of marks from Zantele had persisted, and the gash up the side of his head would be a constant reminder of 'brotherly love' from Ryan. Fortunately, unless he shaved his head, the scar was covered. Neal closed his eyes and breathed in the welcome aroma of June's Italian Roast. Some things he had missed more than others over the last two months. He was still apprehensive about his return to the White Collar unit, but anxious enough that he met Peter curbside.

Peter raised the mug of coffee Neal had given him in a silent toast of welcome. "You good?"

"Always." Neal beamed.

Neal shot him a questioning side-on look when Peter's travel took them away from the Bureau.

"New case?" Neal asked but received no reply.

Peter parked the car on a side street and motioned for Neal to join him. "Walk with me."

Neal's attention had remained on Peter. He hadn't taken in the location, the tree-lined street or old brick buildings.

"The Monet is beautiful." Peter grinned.

Neal opened his mouth, closed it, and tried to cover the sheepish look that crossed his face. He shrugged, questioning. _A Monet—one he'd stolen, or forged, or one he was being blamed for? Peter was grinning like he'd just swallowed the canary? His reprieve from a return to prison might now be very short-lived._

Peter was grinning even broader, if that was possible, and pointing to something. "Thought I'd come see her in the morning."

"Her? Who, her?" Neal had lost his smooth command of the English language. _After everything—recovering the Gardner Art and dropping it in Peter's hands, trusting Peter explicitly—what was he being accused of now?_

Neal flinched when Peter grabbed his arm and pulled him closer. He pointed down the street and whispered with a soft reverence, "She, your Monet, in the morning light."

It was only then that Neal realized where he was; the wrought-iron gate was only a few steps away, the sunlight streaming through the gap between the two old brick buildings and spilling out onto the street.

"How did ... Mozzie."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Peter stepped through the gate of the community garden.

Neal shrugged. His eyes traced the same path Peter's had to his mural of Monet's Garden at Giverny. His eyes brightened, then sparkled. It was the first time he'd seen the mural with the garden in full bloom.

"Want to explain this _forgery_, Caffrey?" Peter smirked.

Neal huffed, "I thought you were accusing me of stealing a Monet?"

"Mmm, should I be?" Peter feigned concerned interest.

"Some things never change." Neal rolled his eyes in mock annoyance and sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the garden.

"Some things do." Peter stared intently at Neal until he had the other man's full attention.

"Neal, I talked to Mozzie after you sent the two texts. Said you wanted to come home. I wanted to talk you, make sure you were good with everything before coming back to work. This place just seemed like the right place to talk honestly with you."

"Honestly? You know words like that scare me, Peter." Neal frowned.

Peter continued. "It was easy chasing you."

"Easy?" Neal sounded incredulous and slightly indignant.

"Not like that." Peter held a hand up. "Chasing: there's rules; even if _you_ broke some of them, I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Who I was, who you were. This ... being _partners_ ... _friends_ ... it's... uh..."

"Complicated."

"Neal, everything about you is complicated. I doubt I'll ever truly know all about you but I'm starting to understand. You like the thrill and the rush of the con, the ability to forge anything put in front of you, rise to any challenge. But..." Peter stood in front of the Monet mural and swept his arm across the garden. "You want more than the moment, the rush. You want to be able to walk out the door and always know that your return will be welcomed. That you'll be welcomed."

Neal wasn't entirely sure what to say to that, and shrugged. "I painted a mural in a garden."

Peter laughed softly. "It goes well beyond a mural. You recovered the Gardner Artwork. You could have easily disappeared with the art: you said it yourself. Instead you asked me to come bring you home."

"Right, like you wouldn't have been on my heels, ready to put me back in prison, the moment some clue of my whereabouts turned up. Come on, Peter, you like the chase but you like the collar even more, especially when it's mine. It was just easier for now to stay in your good graces." Neal tipped his head, challenging Peter to disprove his assertion.

Peter didn't miss the attempt to deflect the conversation away from anything emotional or revealing. Neal had revealed so much of himself in Northern Ireland and Scotland that Peter was almost concerned the man was set to run just so he could reinvent himself. Instead, Neal not only managed to return to New York, but he'd set the Gardner Artwork in Peter's hands, really with little asked in return.

"Yeah, I like the chase, Neal. But I'd like the partnership better. So, I'll try to accuse you of a few less things, believe you when you assert your innocence, and only threaten to throw you in prison on special occasions."

"Gee, thanks, Peter; the generosity is overwhelming," Neal huffed with a light smile.

"You trust me?" Peter asked quietly. He was still directing this conversation.

"You know I do," Neal responded, unabashed. In the same moment he also realized he was being led right down the path Peter had chosen. They weren't here to see his Monet, he was here to see himself in Peter's eyes, whether he wanted to or not. Neal didn't like having his walls breached; he wasn't ready for that yet. Peter was watching him intently.

"You said _you trusted me above all others_." Peter waited for Neal's nod in agreement. "Now, I'm starting to realize why you've never really wanted my trust in return."

Neal stood, ready to counter that comment. Peter again held a hand up. El had told him repeatedly that Neal might just surprise him if he spoke honestly with him. Peter didn't like surprises. He braced himself with a deep inhale of the crisp morning air.

"Let me finish, Neal. What you've wanted, needed, for a long time, isn't trust but faith."

The words spun in Peter's head—_'Faith that you are important, worth fighting for, worth being called a friend, part of a family. What you needed from me wasn't my trust but my faith. I gave that to you without knowing how much that would affect you. How complicated it would be. How much it could devastate you if it was withdrawn. I always believed that Neal Caffrey could be so much more than a con man, and you started to see that belief, that faith.'_ Peter held his words in check, as he caught the moment of panic flash across Neal's carefully constructed facade. Honesty was good but smothering Neal Caffrey with it might just have the reverse effect.

Peter opted for less is more. "You're still here, Neal, not because I believe you all the time, but because I believe in you. _I believe in you,_ Neal."

Neal couldn't hide the slight tremble as he was thrown out of his comfort zone. He felt exposed and safe all in the same breath. He wanted Peter to know everything there was to know about him, and nothing. Anonymity had its benefits. The con worked because you could be whomever you wanted, move from point to point, and never worry about saying goodbye because there was no return, no welcome back. All you had to do was believe in yourself; it was, after all, a confidence game. Peter, however, had given him another type of confidence. The confidence to trust someone else because they had your back. And ultimately, even when things weren't always at their best, when you screwed up, failed miserably to meet their expectations, they'd still pick you up, say something inane, like 'Cowboy up', and be happy to walk side by side with you, to call you a partner, a friend.

"Umm, Peter." Neal let out a held breath. "This is nice and all, but this is my first day back in more than two months. And, while you're in charge of me, Hughes is still the guy in charge of the office and I'd sooner not tick him off by being late."

Peter laughed. What else would Neal Caffrey do but redirect the tension he was showing onto something else. Peter draped an arm lightly across Neal's shoulder and jostled him warmly. "Come on, buddy, let's get you to work before Hughes has you for breakfast."

"For breakfast. Thanks, Peter, that makes me feel_ sooo_ much safer." Neal rolled his eyes.

As Peter opened his car door, Neal tapped the roof of the car.

"Peter." When those brown eyes found his and held his blue eyes intently, warmly, he really didn't need to say anything but, "Thanks."

Hughes immediately gave Neal the two-fingered summons on his entry into the office. He hadn't even managed to flip his fedora onto his desk. He'd anticipated the summons, but after he'd had at least a few moments to acclimatize. Hughes held the door open for him—not the norm. The desire to bolt was overwhelming. Hughes shut the door firmly.

Neal exited ten minutes later; he failed miserably to rein in the look of consternation. Peter latched onto him and guided him to his office and Neal's favored chair.

"Neal?" Peter spoke softly. "You okay?"

"Huh, yeah." Neal absently stared ahead.

"What did Hughes say?"

"Hughes, yes."

"Yes, Hughes. What did he say?"

"He apologized for yelling at me two months ago. Then he said you're ..." Neal blinked up at Peter. "... singled-minded when I'm AWOL and I'm never to do that to you again or he'll personally drive me to prison, my fault or not." Neal stared at some unfocused point over Peter's shoulder. "And, I'm never to sleep on his couch again; actually, I'm never to go anywhere near it again, ever."

Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder.

"It's all good," Peter reassured but the chuckles snuck into every word.

"That man ..." Neal scowled up at Peter. "... scares the hell out of me."

"Good, someone needs to." He tapped Neal on the back. "Come on, we've got cases to solve, your pick." He held two files up. He studied their contents for a moment and smiled. "Ummm, mortgage fraud or mortgage fraud?"

* * *

Epilogue:

Neal showed Peter where he'd secreted Rembrandt's Storm on the Sea of Galilee, only on the condition that he be allowed to paint another two copies of it, marked as such: one for himself, one to present to Adeline of the Art Crimes Unit on her retirement. (Adeline had kept the real painting safe for all the years it hung at the FBI, even though it was supposed to be a well-rendered copy, and when Neal had later asked her personally to store it away for him, she'd smiled and nodded with her years of experience, not only in knowing artwork, but people too.)

Neal refused to say anything against Agent Bob Roberts. Roberts, instead, took a _suggested_ early retirement without severance. Given his early departure from Ireland with Neal, Roberts also wasn't surprised to find that no money had ever gone into an off-shore account for him. He had never planned on taking the money; the Gardner Artwork had simply consumed his career, and not recovering it had become his personal failure.

Peter waited for a month before initiating their investigation into the Gardner Artwork theft. The opening of the case was based on a review of Agent Bob Roberts' findings, as well as Zantele's father's connection several years before with a stolen Rembrandt, and the tie into organized crime, both in the US and abroad. The names slowly came out and within a year arrests were made through joint investigations with counterparts in several other countries. It would actually be nearly two years before all the arrests were made and the recovery of the Gardner Artwork could be revealed to the world.

Neither Peter Burke nor his consultant, Neal Caffrey, were ever interviewed, photographed or mentioned in any of the news releases. They didn't do the job for the glory. And some things were better left unspoken.

Of note, six months after Neal was officially released from his work term, he took the current love of his life to the South of France for a little rest and relaxation. Coincidentally, an unusual theft occurred around the same time in France. A Monet was "unstolen," as the headlines read. The thief had apparently returned one of Monet's garden paintings, with a note stating they had returned the original, as they preferred their own forgery better. A forgery which had hung in a Paris museum for nearly 10 years unnoticed. Peter had smiled as he read the news clipping. It had been sent to him inside an unsigned birthday card.


End file.
